


i'm not scared (anymore)

by dreamboy



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Crime, English Drug Culture, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Sex while Under the Influence, Some Usage of Slurs, as well as some possible emotional manipulation (not between g and m dw), characters are 18+, ehhh some mentions of underage just a warning, generally lots of bad bad not good things, slight biphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-07-21 19:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7399852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamboy/pseuds/dreamboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1975; the UK is post-Beatles and pre-Thatcher, punk rock is in its infancy and Matty Healy is the enigmatic, hard-living celebrity-kid working in Vinyl Planet. George is the boy who spends his time pining over him, smoking weed, and pining over him some more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. vol. i

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i know rumours came out in '77 don't @ me

For George, the 1st of June 1975 was memorable for two reasons.

 

Firstly had been the weather. Weather as cold and biting as this was freakish enough for June, and now, as George was cycling to Ross’s, it had begun to fucking _sleet_. Not rain, fucking _sleet_.

George scowled, gripping tighter onto his bike handles, his knuckles turning white in the process. He cycled until his legs began to ache, half-frozen water pelting onto his face.

His jacket was soaked and ripping by the time he arrived at Ross’s, his fingers fumbling as he chained his bike to the fence. He wished Ross had the decency to live closer, and that he’d had enough money to take the bus, but really, who expected it to sleet in fucking June?

He rang on the doorbell, arms crossed tightly over his chest, shivering under his flimsy plastic coat. He’d had it for years and it was getting tight on him, the bottom beginning to ride up his stomach.

 Ross’s mother answered the door, all soft smiles and permed hair. She eyed George’s drenched clothes, her face sinking.

“George!” She said warmly, “You’re soaked! Are you alright?”

George mumbled a greeting and assured he was okay, taking off his waterlogged shoes and hanging up his coat. Ms. Macdonald stared past him into the street, where sleet continued to beat down onto the pavement and road.

“Hideous weather, isn’t it?” She said, shutting the door behind him.

“Yeah,” George replied with a short laugh, feeling bad when a wet patch began to appear at his feet. “I probably shouldn’t have cycled.”

“You cycled?” Ms. Macdonald cried, “You poor thing. I thought it was supposed to be sunny this time of year!”

“Me too.” George said with a wan smile. “Sorry for getting your floor wet.”

“Oh, it’s okay, dear.” She assured. “It’s only water. Ross is in his room, by the way.”

“Thanks,” George replied, smoothing his still-wet hair.

“Well, I won’t keep you. Tell him to turn his music down when you get upstairs, won’t you?”

“’Course.”

He didn’t.

A Muddy Waters record was blaring when George walked in, the bass making the papers on Ross’s desk vibrate. Ross was slumped against the wall, a fag dangling from his lips. George came in without walking, greeting neither of them and heading straight to Ross’s sofa instead.

“Nice of you to knock.” Ross deadpanned, taking the cigarette from his mouth and exhaling a cloud of smoke. Adam, a friend of Ross, who George had only met once or twice, was reclining across the bed, leafing through a magazine. He looked taken aback when George entered, his body visibly tensing. George nodded at him in acknowledgement.

George didn’t really know Adam that well; the only reason he knew his face at all was because of Ross. All he knew about Adam was that he was a year older than Ross, wanted to study Biochemistry at University next year, and was somewhat mousy, generally choosing to stare quietly at people instead of joining in on conversation. Ross said the latter was only because Adam didn’t know him very well—and that he’d warm up to him after some time, although George wasn’t quite so sure.

Adam nodded back at him, returning quickly to his magazine. Ross’s eyes moved upwards and then down again, skimming over George wet hair and soaked clothes. “You walked here?”

“Cycled.” George returned, groaning slightly. “It was definitely a mistake, if that wasn’t obvious enough. Gimme a ciggie, won’t ya?”

Ross rolled his eyes, but dug through his pocket nonetheless, tossing George a packet of Marlboros.

“Thanks, mate.”

“Whatever. I’m trying to use these up anyways, ‘cos I need to buy a lid. Just buy your own fags next time.”

George didn’t respond, sticking the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it. He took a long drag and closed his eyes; glad to finally be somewhere warm and dry.

“Did you bring any pot with you?” Ross asked hopefully, once George had taken a couple more drags.

“No…” George said gingerly, opening one eye. “I don’t really have a steady supply, y’know. ”

Ross looked disappointed.

“Matty will have some, Ross. Talk to him about it.” Adam said from the bed. George opened both his eyes to stare at him, since he was pretty sure it was the first time he’d heard Adam speak more than three words at a time.

“He might still be at work.” Ross said. “What time is it?”

George looked down at his watch. “Just past three.”

“I’m pretty sure his shift doesn’t end for a bit.”

“He’ll be off in an hour, though. It’s Sunday, so he works shorter shifts.” Adam said, “We could go meet him, since we don’t really have anything better to do.”

Matty was another one of those people George had heard a lot about in passing, but had never actually met him. Ross had mentioned them going to the same secondary school, and that he worked in a record store in town. Apparently, he knew where to get weed, which was all George really cared about.

Ross stared mournfully out the window, where the sleet ad evolved into torrential downpour. “Can’t we wait a bit? I’m not walking in _that_.”

“It’s not too bad…” Adam replied feebly.

“Take a look at George, for fuck’s sake.” Ross said dryly, casting George a dismissive glare. “I _like_ these clothes, thank you very much.”

“ _You’re_ the one who invited me here!” George snapped, feeling quite defensive.

“We’ll wait for a bit before we go find Matty.” Ross said, leaning back and putting out his cigarette. “He’s a laugh—weed or no weed. You’d like him, George.”

George made a ‘hmph’ sound, and from the bed, Adam snorted softly.

“…He’ll grow on you, that is.” Ross admitted, after a slight pause. “He’s an acquired taste. Like coffee or fine wine.”

George had met Ross in their music class at school. They were one of the few boys still doing music there; the number of people willing to put up with old, shitty equipment and stuffy teaching for such an unemployable A-level was certainly dwindling. Despite this, both of them had found a way to make it worth their while.  

Apparently Adam played the guitar too, but George had never seen him, or asked him about it, for that matter.

They knocked about Ross’s room for another hour or so, smoking and talking about girls. Adam talked a bit about his new girlfriend—Rebecca—and how great she was—even though they’d only been going out for a month. After a few minutes, Ross bluntly asked whether or not they’d shagged.

Adam went beetroot red. “None of your business.”

“So… no?”

Adam threw a pillow at Ross’s head. “Fuck off, you tit. As if you’re getting tons of action.”

“You don’t know I’m not!”

“Whatever. I’m not some kind of nympho like Matty, anyways.”

George mentally added ‘has a lot of sex’ to the list of things he knew Matty.

Once the downpour had faded into a pathetic dribble, the three of them wandered outside, stuffed in thick coats, ears tinged pink. They split a measly packet of Marlboro 100s, hoods pulled tightly over their faces.

“Where does Matty work?” George asked, his feet beginning to ache after just a few minutes.

“Vinyl planet.” Ross replied. “‘Working’ is a stretch, though—he just smokes fags and silently judges people’s music taste.”

“Is that even allowed? Smoking while working, I mean.”

“I don’t think the manager gives a fuck.” Adam filled in. He’d refused the cigarettes, telling George that he was trying to quit.

“Which is very convenient for Matty,” Ross added dryly. “The average garden slug has a greater work ethic than him.”

Vinyl planet was squashed awkwardly between the bookshop and Woolworth’s. If George hadn’t been looking properly, he’d have assumed it was empty or up for sale—peeling posters made the inside virtually indistinguishable, and a layer of dust and smog seemed to cling to the door and walls. Ross pushed inside, the others trailing behind him. George coughed when the wall of musty air hit him.

A couple of customers drifted meekly between aisles, but other than that, the place was completely empty. Behind the checkout, a couple of tufts of curly hair were visible from behind a copy of the _NME_ , both its owner’s skinny legs up on the desk.

“Oi, Matty!” Ross called. The magazine was put down, revealing a thin, pale face, partially obscured by a mop of curly hair.

“Oh, hullo.” the boy said, meeting Ross and Adam with an unimpressed stare. His eyes flitted to George in manner teetering on scathing. “Who’s this?”

“This is George Daniel,” Ross replied breezily, “he’s in the year below. Don’t worry, he’s cool. We’re friends.” He assured.

“Hi George.” Matty huffed, fingers drumming on his magazine. He didn’t speak in the local dialect; his voice more of an atypical mongrel of accents that George couldn’t quite place. A little Geordie, a little North London, a little Newcastle, and a little of something else, tinged with the usual Mancunian twang.

Ross leaned over the counter, throwing Matty a crooked grin—an action which wasn’t reciprocated. He leaned closer, causing Matty to fold in his legs give him a forceful scowl.

“What do you want?” Matty asked suspiciously. “And stop smiling so widely at me. It’s fucking creepy.”

“Me? An agenda? Never. Just wondering if you have any pot, ‘cause you always do, and we’re fresh out.” Ross said lowly, quiet enough so that only the people in his immediate proximity could hear.

Matty narrowed his eyes. “I’m not your fucking _drug dealer_.” He hissed. “Get your own.”

“Bad day?”

“It’s been a bad year, Ross.” Matty said tiredly, rubbing his temples. “I won’t repeat myself: get your own.”

Ross groaned. “C’mon, man. Shit like that ain’t easy to come across in fucking _Macclesfiel_ d.” His voice loudened, causing the old lady in the adjacent aisle to look over suspiciously.

“Sorry, Ma’am.” Matty assured weakly, “The new ABBA record’s elicited strong, tempestuous emotions in him. You can’t blame him, really.”

The woman looked unconvinced, but dropped her gaze nonetheless and carried on flicking through the racks.

“It is if you know where to look.” Matty continued, looking back to Ross, one eyebrow raised.

“Well then, where do we look?”

Matty made a dissatisfied noise, and pulled a piece of scrap paper out of a nearby drawer. “And here I was thinking you’d come here because you enjoyed the pleasure of my company.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. That too. You have a delightful personality.”

Matty slid the piece of paper over the counter to a leering Ross, who gave it a quick one over, his face falling.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Matty, has someone broken every bone in your hand?”

Matty wrinkled his noise. “My writing isn’t that bad.”

“It looks like an ancient, forgotten rune language archeologists spend years trying to decrypt.”

“Oh, fuck off. I’ll take you there, if it’s that awful.” Matty ripped the paper away, tossing it aside. “If you can be bothered to wait. And you better pay.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. When’s your shift finish?”

“Half hour. More or less.”

“How long is the journey?”

“About forty minutes.” Matty said. “In the car.”

“ _Seriously_?”

“Look, you don’t have to buy it. I’m just telling you where you can get it. No one ‘round here will sell, and especially not to _you_.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Stop squabbling,” George interjected. “Let’s just do it. Who here can drive?”

“I can.” Matty said, standing up. “I mean, Hann can too. But I wouldn’t trust him behind the wheel if I were you, look at that devious little face.”

Hann blinked, pausing eating his packet of cheese and onion crisps.

“Fine, alright.” George sighed, “We’ll come back in half an hour.”

“Okay then, _don’t_ keep me company.” Matty said indignantly, plodding himself back down.

“Don't you have a _job_ to be doing?”

“On paper, I suppose so.”

Ross snorted. “See you in half an hour, Matty.” 

* * *

 An hour later, the four of them were packed into Adam’s dad’s car, Ross pouring over a map and Matty behind the wheel. Despite George’s protests, Ross had decided it was some how fair to cram him into the backseat next to Adam. Despite him being almost six and a half feet tall.

George realized this whole affair was a bad idea about five minutes into the journey, by which time Ross was virtually purple with anger and Matty looked as he was on the brink of tears.

“I said fucking RIGHT!” Ross moaned, burying his head in his hands. “ _You’re_ the one who’s supposed to know the guy, why are _you_ getting lost?!”

“Stop yelling at me!” Matty screeched back, skinny fingers gripping the wheel tightly.

Adam shrank into the corner, stuffing peanut M&Ms in his mouth, glancing at George, his expression pleading.

George smiled weakly in response, doing his best to communicate _I know, I think they’re both ridiculous too_ and _do you think you can fucking share, mate?_ In one look. George wasn’t sure Adam got the message in his entirety.

In the front seat, Matty and Ross continued to (not so) quietly squabble.

"Do you even _have_ your bloody license?” Ross pleaded, slamming the map down onto his lap.

“…Yeah, basically…”

“ _Basically_?”

George sighed, sinking as far into his seat as he could before his knees hit the back of Ross’s, making him cry out in pain.

The cracking sound caught Matty’s attention, and he contorted his body around.

“Shit, man, you alright?” He asked George.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Matty, eyes on the road!” Ross yelped.

“Sorry!” Matty said, spinning back around and swerving out of the way of a speeding motorcyclist, causing Ross to slam into his window, and Adam’s M&Ms to spill out of the packet.

“Christ.” Ross said, running his fingers through his hair. “Have you even been to this guy’s house before?”

“Not _per se_ …”

“Oh my god, Matty. I actually despise you. If you weren’t driving I’d throw you out the car.”

“Hey! I’ll turn this car the fuck around and you’ll go home empty-handed.”

“Fine, fine.” Ross said, exhaling slowly, “I love you, Matthew Timothy Healy, and your shit driving. Now just take us to where the weed is.”

The mention of Matty’s full name caught George’s attention, pulling him out of his disinterested trance. He was sure he’d heard that name somewhere, but before he could open his mouth to say something, the car came screeching to a halt. George yelped, ready to bid life sweet goodbye, but nothing came. Instead, when he slowly opened his eyes, he found that the car wasn’t moving, and had stopped outside a neat row of houses.

“We’re here,” Matty exclaimed with a small sigh of relief. “Out the car, lads.”

George opened the door gingerly, still vaguely disorientated and surprised to hear the beat of his heart in his chest. Adam followed soon after, throwing his discarded M&Ms a final, longing stare.

“If this isn’t the real deal, Matty, I swear to God…” Ross groaned, rubbing his neck and stumbling out the car. “Christ, I feel sick.”

“ _You_ were the one who was desperate, not me. And besides, d’ya think I would lie to you?”

Ross snorted. “Yes actually. Like whenever you’ve done something illegal, devious, and generally abhorrent and what I explicitly told you not to do. Which is to the majority of things you do.”

“Well, true, but I haven’t in this case.” Matty said, his voice weirdly bright. He plunged his hands into his pockets, nodding at the house they’d stopped in front of.

The place was deceptively clean looking, with neatly laid redbrick walls and a meticulous row of potted-plants lining the window shelves. Every house on the road was semi-detached, with black-tiled roofs and sleek cars parked in front. Not the place where George would typically expect to find a pot dealer.

“Are you sure this is the right road?” Adam asked cautiously, his eyes darting up and down the stretch of buildings, his gaze eventually landing on a family of simpering children and clean-cut parents trooping past the.

"Yeah, for sure.” Matty returned, although his voice had lost a great deal of its conviction.

Matty marched up to the front door decisively and rang the doorbell. The other three drifted after him, and George expected the police to spring out of the bushes and for Matty to reveal he’d been an undercover policeman the entire time. But that didn’t happen.

Instead, the four of them waited while the doorbell rang. No one immediately came, and George could feel the dread in his stomach build. By the time someone padded to the door, George was preparing to flee. What if this guy was an axe-wielding psychopath who’d—

“Hello?” A middle-aged woman answered the door, her blonde hair teased around her head. She, George thought, certainly didn’t look like a drug dealer.

“Hiya!” Matty greeted, his tone friendly. “I’m looking for Jack.”

“Jack?” The woman echoed, her brows knitting together. “What… what do you want to speak to him about?”

“We were school friends.” Matty said smoothly, “We were just knocking ‘round the area and thought we could catch up. Is he in?”

“Oh—yes. Hang on.” The woman spun around and looked up the stairs, “Jack!” She called, “Some people are here to see you.” She turned back around, giving the four of them a warm smile. “He’s so popular, he always has friends calling on him.”  
  
A boy in his early twenties appeared at top of the staircase, dressed in tartan trousers and a gaudy yellow turtleneck. His hair flopped over his face, only partially obscuring the constellations of acne covering his forehead.

“Jack, this boy said he knew you from school! Do you remember him?”

Jack’s eyes skimmed over their faces, eventually landing on Matty. His expression relaxed.

“Yeah,” he said, “hey Matty. You can come upstairs.” He looked over to the rest of them, as if he’d only just noticed them, “All of you can.”

Matty was the first to step inside, happily skipping up the stairs as if it belonged to him. When he noticed the rest of them hadn’t followed, he turned around to give them an expectant glare.

The three of them jerked into motion and followed him up, Ross even giving Jack’s mother what George assumed was supposed to be a respectful, bobbing bow.

Jack’s room was crammed with posters of various progressive rock bands and smelt vaguely like cheese and onion crisps. He motioned for the for of them to sit down, and they did, cramming onto the tiny single bed in a wonky row.

“You didn’t _tell_ me he lived with his mother,” Ross hissed to Matty, once Jack had turned his back and begun digging through the drawers in his desk.

“I didn’t know,” Matty hissed back, “like I told you, I’ve never been to his house. Besides, you’re getting your pot, right? Why are you—”

“I’m running low,” Jack said, cutting Matty off. “How many grams d’ya want?”

“He’ll take an eighth.”

“That’s £4.”

“£4? You fucking kidding me? Is it laced with fucking diamonds?”

“Good luck finding it anywhere else.” Jack answered with a leer.

“Well, I guess it’s up to you.” Matty murmured to Ross.

“…£4?” Ross repeated, sounding somewhat defeated.

“Yeah.”

“And… that’s expensive?”

“Fucking Christ.” Matty said into his palm. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

“Look, you’d have to drive into Manchester to find it any cheaper.” Jack cut in.

“C’mon, man. Friends and family discount?”

“Look,” Ross interrupted, “I don’t care that much.”

“No, no. You’re being ripped off by this fucker!” Matty insisted, gesturing to Jack. “No offence.”

Jack scowled, looking very much offended. Perhaps that would have made a goo prerogative for Matty to shut up, but he continued, undeterred.

“He’ll take it for £4.” Matty said.

“Will he now?” Ross muttered, his voice so quiet that George doubted anyone but him heard him.

“£4. I need to make money, Matty.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Matty said, which earned a curt laugh from Ross, “there’s no way you can’t sell for less while still making a profit.”

“Matty, really, it’s only one eighth, it’s fine—”

“£4. I’m not going lower.” Jack snapped, his voice tightening with impatience.

“And that’s fine. That’s good. Thank you, Jack.” Ross said quickly, speaking before Matty had the chance to open his mouth. He gave him a quick but scathing glare, causing Matty to shrink back.

 Ross reached into his coat and fished out a much-fingered empty Marlboro packet, holding it out in front of him. Jack reached his arm behind the drawers, pulling out a bag of brownish-green leaves and tossed it to Ross, who unzipped it. He dumped some of it into the packet, until it looked as if a jolt would knock it all out. Ross closed the box, wrapped it in a discarded jumper and unzipped his bag, ready to stuff it inside.

“Hey!” Jack interrupted, “The money?”

“Oh yeah,” Ross fumbled for his wallet, and handed Jack a wad of notes.

“Thanks, mate.” Jack said, grinning wolfishly, shooting Matty a quick but venomous glare. “Good doing business with you.”

“You too, “ Ross replied, “could I get your address for myself? I can’t read Matty’s writing.”

Matty made a noise of protest, but no one apart from George seemed to notice. Jack offered Ross a hand, which Ross took after a short hesitation.

“Well then, lads.” Ross said, turning to the other three, who were still sat in a row on the bed. “That’s that, then.” 

* * *

Adam insisted on driving them back, something for which George was grateful. Matty sulked for half the journey, before an Alice Cooper song came on the radio and he began to howl along, seemingly unconcerned about whether or not he was off-pitch.

“Fucking hell, Matty, you’re distracting me.” Adam murmured irritably, although he didn’t sound very serious.

George stretched his legs and cracked his back, a lazy smile spreading across his face. Somehow, he’d been squeezed into the backseat not once but twice, but this time, Matty was squeezed next to him, his shoulder pressed into the window and his legs folded against his thighs. George felt a little bad for taking up so much room, even if Matty had insisted several times that he didn’t mind.

“Where d’ya want dropping off, Matty?” Adam asked, cutting through Matty’s singing.

“Ehm, maybe town centre? I don’t really care, I can walk from there. It’s stopped raining.”

"You’re gonna go home, right?” Ross asked. George could tell he was trying to sound casual, but his voice had gone unusually taut.

“Probably not. I’ll stay with a friend.” Matty replied evenly.

“Scott?” Ross asked, continuing to probe. He sounded a bit like how George’s mother sounded when she was feeling particularly untrusting.

“Yeah,” Matty turned his body into the window and stared outside, defiantly. “Probably him.”

George felt as though he wasn’t understanding the conversation that was really going on. Even though their exchange was cordial, the air was tense, and now neither of them were speaking. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Adam’s hand seemed to tighten on the wheel.

“Who’s Scott?” He asked, breaking the quiet.

“No one.” Matty answered flatly. George could see his face reflected in the window—dark eyes, inky hair and a thin, angular nose. His expression was blank. “A guy I know from work.”

The voice of an overly chipper radio DJ filled George’s ears, happily narrating the few news events from the past few days. The most interesting thing seemed to be the miserable and abhorrent weather, which had apparently spread across the country.

 “ _This is 89.1 Capital Manchester FM!”_ She said brightly, “ _Unfortunately the rain and sleet we saw today with be continuing into the week, but not to worry! We’re here to offer you the finest that pop and rock has to offer! But right now, it’s seven ‘o’clock, and you know what that means! Retro hour! Send in your requests—”_

George zoned out, barely paying attention when a Chordettes track began to play. He stared out the window at the suburbs rushing past, the rain leaving a glossy sheen across the tarmac of the road and pavement.

“I need to return this car to my parents before they notice, by the way,” Adam said. “They’ll flip if they find out I’ve driven it. I hope none of you have gotten it dirty.” He threw Matty a particularly suspicious look.

“Why are you looking at me?” Matty protested, “I’ve barely touched it. 

“Ha!” Ross barked, “Maybe you’ve barely touched the _inside._ It’s a miracle there aren’t any scratches.”

“Remind me never to trust you with any kind of vehicle again, Matthew.” Adam sighed, tapping the wheel with his knuckles.

Matty mumbled something incomprehensible, most likely a defense, but it seemed half-hearted.

Adam dropped George outside his house, the three of them offering a chorus of goodbyes. George watched as the car sped off, indistinct chatter still audible from the half-open window.

When George got in the house, his skin still slick from rain and hair matted and damp, his mother seemed mildly annoyed for a few minutes, scolding him for missing dinner. But all in all, she got over herself rather quickly.

George found himself inexplicably tired, almost immediately collapsing on his bed with all of the lights still on, fully dressed. He drifted into uneasy rest, the patter of the rain outside eventually sinking into the background.

* * *

George woke up a couple of hours later, his clothes creased and his hair skewed. The clock was approaching ten, and George’s impromptu nap had left him, annoying, completely refreshed, meaning he’d be unable to get back to sleep for quite a while. His father would kill him if he started playing music or watching television, so that was out of the question, leaving him with only one option for something to do.

He wanked off to a magazine he had stashed under his bed for a few minutes, more out of boredom than anything else, but even that didn’t hold a particular thrill. His orgasm came as simply as muted pleasure, and he wasn’t quite able to come directly into the wad of Kleenex in his hand, resulting, annoyingly, in quite the mess. And worst of all, it barely curbed his boredom.

He hopped in the shower, too lazy to properly wash himself, instead just staring disinterestedly at the wall and letting the hot water roll over his body and onto the floor, turning his normally pasty skin pink.

George stepped out and ran a towel through his hair, treading lazily down the stairs with a towel slung around his waist, hoping to make himself a cup of strong and sweet tea.

When he got down, he found his younger sister, Heather, stood in the kitchen, lazily flipping through a glossy magazine. She met him with a unimpressed stare.

“Hey,” George said flatly, flicking the kettle on. “How was your day?”

“Alright. Not much happened.” She replied, turning to the next page. “You?” 

“Went out with the lads.”

Heather nodded without looking up, not bothering to veil her lack of real interest.

“When do your exams start?” He asked her, doing his best to make some kind of conversation.

“A week.”

“You revised?”

She scoffed, which George took as a resounding ‘no’. Academics had never been something Heather had taken a particular interest in. The kettle continued to whir, steam rushing out in a pearly plume.

“Dad had another hospital appointment today.” Heather said quietly, after the hissing of the kettle had stopped.

George paused, his hand hovering over one of the mugs in the cupboard. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” She continued, her hands tracing the grooves in the table. “They said he’d have to go in again next week.”

Although her voice sounded just about steady, George could hear it was on the cusp of wavering.

“Oh.” He repeated, unable to find something more intelligent or comforting to tell her.

Heather didn’t speak, returning wordlessly to her magazine. George poured the boiling water and dunked a tea bag in, followed by a splash of milk, which swirled in sepia spirals. He added a generous amount of sugar, and prepared to take himself upstairs, taking a long sip from the mug.

Heather ended up standing first, tucking her magazine under her arm.

“By the way,” she said coolly, “I’d advise jerking off more quietly next time. The walls in this house are very thin.”

George choked on his tea.

He ended up lingering in the kitchen a little longer, staring at the wall idly and slurping the remainder of his drink. It was nearing midnight, and George supposed he should probably think about going to bed, since he had a test tomorrow and would have to be up at 5am. The sky outside was navy blue, only dampened by streams of pale, yellow streetlight.

He was about to get up and go bed, but before he could, there was a sharp knock at the door, stopping George in his tracks. He blinked, rubbing his eyelids and forcing himself to his feet. He was pretty sure everyone else in the house was asleep—but part of him didn’t want to answer, the fear that he wouldn’t like what was waiting outside for him ebbing at the back of his brain. Although it was unlikely a serial killer was standing outside, George wasn’t even sure he could be bothered with the human engagement.

He opened it anyway, eyes widening when he saw Matty Healy, of all people, standing there, coat hanging off his back, dripping ringlets hair plastered to his forehead. 

“Matty?” George asked, disbelief flooding his voice.

“Hey.” Matty said lamely. George couldn’t see him fully in the darkness, but he could make out his thin shoulders shaking slightly, most likely from the cold.

“Uh—not being funny, mate, but… what are you doing here?” George asked, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s nearly midnight.”

Matty exhaled, pale cheeks tinged unusually pink.

“Got nowhere to go,” he said softly, staring at his feet and laughing nervously.

“What?”

“I haven’t got anywhere to sleep tonight.”

“Nowhere? What about your parents?”

“Can’t. I can’t…” Matty tore his gaze away, his sentence teetering off. His voice seemed fragile, and George could see his skinny silouhette tense.

“Why not? Did you have an argument with them?”

“Yeah, we had an argument.” Matty said, nodding weakly. He didn’t sound very convincing—but George couldn't be bothered to pursue it.

“Why not Ross or Adam? I mean, I like you well enough and all but—”

“No, no, I get it. It’s just—” Matty breathed in sharply. His eyes looked puffy. “I’ve got no way of getting to Adam’s, and Ross’s parents hate me, so…”

“How about your friend?" 

Matty looked up, finally meeting George’s eyes. “Huh?”

“Y’know… the friend you said you were gonna stay with. Earlier, that was what you said.”

“Oh—yeah, right. That didn’t work out.” Matty replied shortly.

George continued to stare at him intently, but Matty said didn’t elaborate, clearly expecting him to accept his feeble, vague answer and accept him without question.

The reasonable part of George told him that he ought to tell Matty to find someplace else to stay because he wasn’t running a fucking hotel, but Matty’s sad eyes and soaked clothes made it feel impossible. That was George’s problem. He was too nice. He hated that sometimes.

George shook his head, relenting. “Look, you can come in. It’s just… my parents are asleep and I doubt they’d like you being here. You’ll have to leave early, so they don’t know you were here.”

“What time?”

“By five-thirty, at the latest.’

Matty nodded. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“C’mon in, then.” George said gently, beckoning Matty inside. “Mind taking your shoes off? I’ll get you a towel.”

“Thank you. I mean—you barely know me. Thank you.” Matty said, studying George’s face with an almost forensic interest. “You seem really nice. Seriously.”

George could feel his cheeks heating up. “Uh—thanks. I couldn’t turn you away, could I? I’d feel like a twat.” 

“I still appreciate it.”

George crept upstairs, leaving Matty in the hallway, and grabbed a plush clean towel from the bathroom. When he came back, Matty hadn’t shifted, his clothes clinging to his skinny limbs tightly. He looked grateful when George tossed him the towel from behind the bannister, rubbing it all over his face and hair.

“Thanks again.” He muttered, once he was done.

“D’ya want… a change of clothes or something?” George asked, eyeing the way Matty’s wet t-shirt clung to his ribcage.

“Nah, I’m good.” Matty assured, offering him a flimsy grin.

George arched an eyebrow, shaking his head. “Alright, follow me. I’ll show you where you can sleep.”


	2. vol. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, i was in portugal or something idk but HOPEFULLY now i'm back and have nothing to do chapters should be fairly frequent..... fairly

When George woke up, Matty had already disappeared. George rolled over, sheets twisting over his body, his eyes searching for Matty somewhere on the floor. The night before George had fashioned him a bed out of old pillows and blankets, fussing over how comfortable it would be. Matty hadn’t seemed too bothered at the time, telling George he’d sleep anywhere vertical and really didn’t care how many pillows or blankets there were. Within minutes he’d been snoring softly, a blanket pulled over his head, leaving only a few tufts of curly hairs visible to the eye.

George got to his feet and stretched, running a hand absent-mindedly through his hair. He switched the radio on, groping through his cupboard for something to wear.

Now he was in sixth form he didn’t have to wear a uniform, which probably should have been something he was happy about, but to George, it just meant spending more time deciding what to wear. He picked out a ratty band shirt and faded jeans, not even bothering to look in the mirror as he went past it. He wondered what time Matty had left—he’d apparently tidied up his makeshift bed behind him, leaving no indicator that he’d ever even been there.

George wondered where he was now. Ross had said Matty didn’t go to school; maybe he’d gone to resolve the argument he’d had with his parents.

When he got downstairs, he prepared himself a steaming cup of coffee to wake himself up fully. He was always the first one up; his parents both worked nearby and didn’t have much of a commute, and his elder sister, Angela was at Uni and didn’t have to be up until much later. Heather was normally content with barely arriving on time everyday, so that ruled her out.

He wolfed down a bowl of cereal and two pieces of toast before heading out. Monday was always shit—he had lessons every period and he had work straight after.

The rain had stopped, but the pavement outside was still damp, sunlight bouncing off it and giving the illusion that the street was glowing.

After finishing breakfast, he cycled to school, wrapped in a thick coat. Normally in June he only needed a shirt and a light jacket, but the freakish weather still left his teeth chattering. He found the coolness refreshing, though, and kind of appreciated the icy breeze rushing through his hair.

He planned on going to the library to finish some homework he’d neglected to do over the weekend. Classes started at nine, and George was sure he could get all his work done in the next hour and a half, if he focused. All the shenanigans with Ross and Jack had distracted him, meaning he’d neglected to do the essay Miss Wulder wanted on her desk by Tuesday.

George liked the library—he liked that it was normally completely empty, and he liked that it always seemed much warmer than the rest of the school.

He sat in one of the chairs by the window, pulling out various papers from his bag, smoothing them with his hands. By half eight, a figure had slipped in the chair next to him, letting out a heavy sigh as they did so. George looked up, quickly realizing who it was and feeling blood immediately rush to his face.

 Amber was in his music class; she had pretty blonde hair and blue eyes, and said her favorite artists were Funkadelic, Joni Mitchell and T. Rex. Last year, George had watched her belt out B. J. Thomas’s _Hooked On A Feeling_ in the cantine and instantly fallen in love. She was in his English class too, and they’d become kind-of friends over time, greeting one another in the hall, and offering friendly smiles in class.

“Hey,” She said, sitting down next to him. “You done the English essay?”

“Doing it now.”

“Have you written a plan?” She asked hopefully.

“Yeah… why?”

Amber looked sheepish. “Can I borrow that? I’m always shitty at that part. I never know which paragraph should go where.”

George studied her face, wishing she wasn’t so pretty and nice, so he could say ‘no’. “Fine,” he muttered instead, averting his gaze, “just this once.”

She flashed him a grin, and George felt his insides turn into mush.

By the time George was finished, his hand had begun to ache from writing so much. He had English first period, and needed to have it perfect—or decent, at least—by then. He finished by scrawling the date from five days ago at the top, and shoved the paper haphazardly in his folder.

“Finished,” he whispered to Amber. “You can keep the plan.”

“Thanks.” She said, looking up briefly from her paper to flash him a smile. Blood rushed quickly to George’s ears, and he turned away quickly.

* * *

 “That’s… weird.” Ross said through a mouthful of sandwich. “Although, not entirely un-Matty-like.”

George had just recounted the night before, including everything from Matty’s wet clothes to his leaving before George had even woken up. Ross had taken the information with a slow, knowing nod.

“Does he do shit like that often?” George asked.

Ross shrugged. “Well, not exactly like that but… he’s had his fair share of… erratic behavior.”

George wasn’t entirely sure what Ross meant by ‘erratic’ behavior, but got the feeling Ross didn’t want to elaborate either. He elected to change the subject instead.

“Where’d you meet Matty?” George asked, curious.

“My old school—he was in my form.” Ross replied. “Adam knew him through the music department. He was a proper weirdo, but people liked him, ‘cause they thought he was a laugh.” Ross scratched his ear. “Still sorta the case today, ‘spose.”

George nodded, his gaze falling into the rice pudding he’d retrieved from the cantine. It didn’t look appetizing.

“He mentioned staying with a friend in the car. What’d you reckon happened with that?” George asked, stirring the pudding with the tip of his finger, his nose wrinkled.

“Oh yeah, Scott. Dunno what happened, but I’m not surprised they fell out; he’s a wanker.”

 “You know him?”

“Sorta. I’ve meant him when he was hanging out with Matty a couple times. I don’t really know much about him aside from what Matty’s told me. He just says he’s a couple years older and that he’s cool. But he’s always seemed like a wanker to me, so...”

At that moment, Amber Bain appeared at the head of the table, her blonde hair pushed to one side, her face smiling and glowing. Behind her stood a tall, pretty girl with long, blonde-brown hair, who looked as if she’d much rather be somewhere else.

“D’ya mind if we sit here?” Amber asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Our friends are being dicks.”

Ross raised a jeering eyebrow at George, and shrugged. Ross was very good at picking up on who George currently fancied, and had noticed George’s cruh on Amber before George had. In typical Ross fashion, he teased George about this whenever possible. “Yeah, whatever.”

Amber slid in next to Ross and across from George, her friend sitting down next to him. The friend let out a heavy sigh, as if coming into George’s immediate proximity was incredibly trying for her.

“This is Marika, by the way.” Amber filled in, breaking the short silence. “She’s actually quite nice,” she shot Marika a poisonous glare, “when she isn’t being a twat.”

Marika scowled, staring intently at the neighboring wall.

"So… what were you talking about?” Amber asked earnestly, taking a bite of her bread and leaning forwards.

“My friend, and how he’s a fucking nut.” Ross answered shortly.

“Which friend?”

“You wouldn’t know him.”

“I might.” Amber said stubbornly, “What’s his name?”

“Matty.”

Amber’s blue eyes widened. “Healy?”

“You know him?”

“Who doesn’t?” Amber scoffed.

“How?”

“I’m friends with a girl who knew him quite well back in secondary school.”

“What’s her name?” Ross asked.

“Jodie.”

“Jodie?” Ross repeated. “I know her too. She went to our old school. Curly blonde hair? Pretty?”

Amber nodded. “That’s the one.”

“Well,” Ross said, “point is, Matty’s a weirdo.”

“In other news, water is wet. What did he do to provoke your?”

“Turned up on George’s porch in the middle of the night asking if stay the night.”

“Well,” Amber said, shrugging, “that’s not too—”

“We’d met that morning.” George interrupted, his voice flat.

Amber’s face softened in understanding. “Oh… okay. Slightly weird.”

“Exactly.”

“What did you do? Did you let him stay?”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna be an arsehole and turn him away, was I?” George grumbled. “That would make me feel like a right twat.”

“You need to stop being so nice,” Ross chided through a mouthful of salad.

“I don’t think being ‘too nice’ is a thing.”

“It is! Being too nice only ever ends badly.” Ross insisted, shaking his head.

“Is that why you always act like a inconsiderate wanker?”

“Exactly!” Ross exclaimed, beaming. “You’ve got it!”

George rolled his eyes, shoving his fork back down on his plate. “He left before I woke up anyways. Besides, I let him stay the night, I didn’t promise him my first-born. It’s not a big deal.”

“That’s the thing with Matty, though.” Ross said with a shake of his head, “One night you’ll be letting him stay over, next thing you’ll be writing him into your will. Don’t let him walk all over you, mate.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not an _actual_ idiot. I can tell when people are messing me about, alright?”

“Sure you can.”

“Fuck off.”

“You’ll be fine, don’t listen to Ross.” Amber assured, “Matty isn’t that bad. He’s just like a slightly oversized stray cat. He’ll wander into your kitchen at 1am looking very skinny and hungry, you’ll feed him out of pity, and eventually he’ll piss off and you’ll never have to think about him again.”

“Not before pissing on the rug and clawing the sofa up.” Ross said under his breath.

“Oh, shut up.”

Ross put his hands up in mock defeat.

“Everyone be quiet,” George snapped, “I’m not thick, okay? Nobody will be pissing on anybody’s rug. Not on my watch.”

 Ross grumbled something indistinct, but George ignored him.

 “Well,” he said, stuffing the last bit of his food in his mouth. “You’ve all been extremely unhelpful. Thank you.”

He stood up, taking his plate with him and shooting them all his best disdainful glare.

 “Aww, c’mon mate!” Ross called after him, but George didn’t turn around, disappearing to throw away the remainder of his lunch and sulk in the library until the end of break.

* * *

 George had told himself he’d be able to go an evening without Matty Healy’s name crossing his mind. However, by nine, he’d already failed this resolution.

He’d wandered into his family’s TV room, where both his parents and Heather were squashed onto the sofa, watching Tim Healy's chubby face delivering dry punch lines and crude humour. 

He didn't look like Matty in the slightest—Matty was slight, pasty and looked perpetually solemn, whilst Tim was burly and browned from the sun, laughter lines etched into his smiling face. Although—if George squinted—he could see Matty in Tim’s eyes, that drooped slightly in the corners.

"That's... Tim Healy, right?" George asked, sitting on the arm of the sofa, his arms crossed over one another. 

"Yeah, that's him." His father replied over his steaming cup of tea. "Why do you ask?"

George shrugged. "I have a friend who knows his kid, apparently."

"Really?" His mother asked, perking up suddenly. "That'd be his son with that woman from  _Corrie_... ooh, what's her name?"

"Denise Welch," Heather said. "She's the lady who runs the pub."

"Oh, her? She's a real bitch. She's good, though."

"I heard they lived nearby," George father said, addressing George again. "What's their kid's name?"

"Matthew."

His father shrugged. "Don't know him."

"He works in the record store. I don't think he likes talking about his parents, from what I've heard. I think he’s a bit embarrassed."

"Why not?" Heather sneered, "I'd want everyone to know if my parents were famous."

"That's because you want any attention people will give you." George said snidely.

Heather scowled, prodding him the stomach with her foot. "Shut up."

"Oi, stop it." Their father warned. "We're trying to watch."

George ignored Heather and watched the telly with his family for a few more minutes, forcing himself to pay attention, but quickly lost interest. He didn't really know what was going on, but he could infer that Tim Healy's character was in a lot of trouble, and that various antics would most likely ensue.

He yawned, gulping down the remainder of the tea his mother and pushed into his hands. "I'm going to bed. This is boring."

"Suit yourself." Heather said snidely, shaking her head.

* * *

 Matty was content being the only person on entire the train carriage; it was 4:37am, according to his watch, and the sun was just beginning to creep up from behind the horizon.

Matty fumbled with his jumper sleeves, pulling and tugging them over his fingers absentmindedly. Unlike most people, he quite liked being up early; he liked the solitude and peacefulness, and the blinking lights of the Manchester cityscape.

He didn’t particularly want to return to Macclesfield—with all its dull stretching green fields and shit people. He liked to spend as much time with Scott as he could, pretending he didn’t have a life back in the suburbs—like he never had to go home.

He always did, though. Eventually. Maybe one day he’d never bother returning, without any notice—he’d just disappear.

Matty pulled his legs up against his chest and leaned his head against the window, tucking his chin over his knees, ignoring the way the vibrations made his temple sore. He hadn’t been back home since Friday—and he supposed he probably ought to show his face.

The train wouldn’t take him directly to Macclesfield—so he’d have to get off at the next stop and walk the remainder. He didn’t mind, he quite liked walking. The part he didn’t like was the silence of the British countryside in the morning, the lack of music felt like a gaping hole. Although he hated to admit it, the quiet tended to unsettle him.

The train eventually came screeching to a halt, and Matty stood up, pulling his coat tighter around his body. He whistled softly as he walked, eyes darting up and down the pavement. It would take him twenty minutes to get home from here—if he walked quickly. The air outside was cold and clean—totally different to the polluted, thick Mancunian air.

When he arrived home the clock was approaching five-thirty, and the entire house was silent, yellow light beginning to pour through the curtains into the kitchen. The whole place was a mess—with a couple of empty bottles strewn across the table and the cupboard doors left ajar. Who ever had eaten here last hadn’t bothered to clear up, leaving their dirty plates haphazardly in the sink. Matty began to clear it up with a sigh, pushing his hair out of his face before he began. He didn’t normally care much about tidiness—but it gave his hands something to do.

Once he was done he headed upstairs, collapsing on his unmade bed, the curtains still drawn. He lay there for a few minutes before forcing himself up and selecting a record from the pile at the side of his bed at random. He laid the disc on his record player, letting the needle drop and crawling under his sheets, feeling a sudden fatigue that seemed to put weights on his eyelids.

 

_I’m a fool to want you_

_I’m a fool to want you_

_To want a love that can’t be true_

_A love that’s there for others too_

 

Matty peaked his head over the sheets, resting his back against the headboard. He lit a cigarette, closing his eyes and allowing Billie Holiday’s raspy warble to wash over him. He didn’t have work until the afternoon, meaning he could catch up on sleep for the remainder of the morning. He would rather stay in bed, smoking weed and listening to music for the rest of the day, but he rather liked this job, and wanted to keep it for the time being. He’d promised his co-worker, Olly, that he’d cover the latter part of his shift, in a moment of uncharacteristic selflessness.

 

_Time and time again I said I'd leave you_  
_Time and time again I went away_  
_But then would come the time when I would need you_  
_And once again these words I had to say_

 

He drifted off before long, leaving his half-smoked fag in the ashtray next to his bed. The LP continued on, until the final few notes of the last song hung in the air, and then vanished.

* * *

Matty jolted awake around 2pm, the sound of a dog barking waking him up unceremoniously. He frowned and rubbed his head, looking around for the perpetrator herself.

Pip was sitting at the foot of his bed, her tongue hanging out, looking up at him with a pair of round, brown eyes.

“Fucking hell,” Matty cursed, “has no one walked you?”

Unsurprisingly, Pip didn’t respond.

Matty had to be at work in half an hour, and was sure he wouldn’t have the time to take her out for a walk. Instead, he reached forward and petted Pip’s head, letting out a quiet sigh. He ended up forcing himself to his feet, smoothing out his t-shirt and rearranging his hair as he did so.

“C’mon,” he said to Pip, who happily trotted down the stairs behind him.

Matty had assumed that by this time there would be a hint at life from _somewhere_ —but there was still no sound apart from his feet making the floorboards moan. He supposed his parents might’ve gone out, and his brother was probably still at school, leaving him completely alone.

Normally he wouldn’t have minded, but today, he found himself craving some kind of human interaction—no matter how mundane it might be.

He fixed himself some lunch, and well as fed Pip a couple of treats while he was t it, and sat himself down on the sofa in front of the TV.

By the time he’d finished, Matty could hear the turn of a key and the door swinging open. He looked up to see his mother standing in the doorway, his little brother, Louis, hovering around her legs.

Denise gawked at him for a few seconds, before dropping her keys on the table and allowing her thin lips to twist into a faint frown.

“Louis, darling.” She said tautly, “Go upstairs and play, will you?”

Louis looked between them meekly, clearly sensing, despite his young age, a degree of tension. “But I want Matty to play trains with me. I haven’t seen him in forever.”

“He will in a bit,” his mother assured gently. “I just need to talk to him first, alright, love?”

Louis looked ready to protest, but obediently trooped upstairs nonetheless, his school bag still slung over his shoulder.

“Matthew,” Denise started lowly, once Louis had vanished, sitting down across from him at the table. “Would you mind telling me where _the hell_ you’ve been?”

“Work, partially.” Matty replied without looking up, continuing to pick at his food. “Work, too. I got back this morning. Weren’t you in?”

Denise’s voice was deadly quiet. “I must have missed you.”

Matty shrugged. “Happens.”

“Fancy telling me next time you happened to disappear for the _entire weekend?_ ” She hissed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t _plan_ to. Stuff cropped up.”

“Stuff that took up the entire weekend?”

Matty shrugged again, taking a generous gulp of the soup he’d heated himself up.

His mother looked as if she wanted to be angry, but instead, she just looked stressed. Fine lines were beginning to set into her face, and her hair had been left unbrushed. Matty felt a sudden surge of guilt for upsetting her.

“Sorry, Mum.” He said, “I didn’t mean to upset you or anything. It just… slipped my mind.”

She sighed, drumming her fake nails against the table surface. “I had no idea where you were.” She started, her voice shaking slightly, as if she was trying her best not to shout. “I telephoned Ross and Adam’s houses, and they said they hadn’t seen you since Sunday.”

“I went into Manchester—it was my day off.”

“What were you doing in Manchester?”

“Not much,” Matty replied, careful not to sound too defensive. “I just get sick of being in a tiny town all the time, is that allowed?”

“I’d appreciate you at least _telling_ me first.” She hissed. She probably wanted to sound threatening, but instead, she only sounded exhausted—like she was telling him off because she knew she was supposed to. “I don’t want to argue right now, Matthew. Can’t you just apologize so we can move on? I’m very tired, and I can’t be arsed with this right now.”

Matty bit his lip, resisting the urge to say something snarky in response. It was unlike either of them to argue; Matty normally hated arguing with his family, especially when that family member happened to be his mother. He was hardly someone afraid to speak his mind, but he barely had the energy—or cheek—to argue with his parents.

“Okay,” he told her, quickly relenting. “I’m sorry, Mum. I am, really.”

Denise rubbed the corners of her eyes, her eye makeup smudging slightly. “Fine. Would you mind going to talk to Louis for a bit? He’s very energetic right now and I really—”

“It’s okay.” Matty finished. “I’ll go talk to him him for a bit,” he looked down at his watch, “I have work soon, though.”

“That’s okay. Just go see him.”

“By the way,” Matty said, standing up from the kitchen table, “has anyone walked Pip?”

Denise blinked, still looking dazed. “No,” she said finally, “no, I don’t think anyone has.”

“Uh, well. Someone should. She seems antsy.” Matty said. He paused. “Or… I could do it when I get back, I guess.”

“Thank you, darling.” Denise said, her smile watery.

Matty nodded once, and walked up the stairs to Louis’ room.

When he got inside, Louis was sat on the floor, toy trains scattered across the carpet. Matty sat down across from him, picking a toy off the floor and examining it.

“Is this one new?” He asked.

Louis nodded vigorously. “Mum bought it for me yesterday.”

“That’s cool. You really have a lot, now.” Matty said, putting it back down on the floor next to the others.

“Yeah.” Louis put a chubby hand on the train closest to him, “They’re all different, though.” He went silent, suddenly seemingly sullen. “Is mum okay, Matty?”

“Hmm?”

“Mum.” Louis said. His eyebrows were knitted together in concern, “She seems sad.”

Matty didn’t know how to respond, taken aback by his brother’s words. He’d always assumed six-year-olds never really noticed that kind of thing, too self-absorbed to notice the finer details of their parents’ behavior. It must have gotten worse—if even _Louis_ had noticed her acting strangely.

“Does she?” Matty asked softly, deciding that playing dumb was the best option.

Louis pouted, studying his train. “Yeah…”

Matty wasn’t naïve; he knew there was something wrong with his mother. He’d known it for a very long time. He’d only come to realize it her behavior was abnormal when he’d grown older—before, he’d been so used to her distant attitude he’d hadn’t realized it was anything of note. She’d gotten better over the past few years, as evidenced by the fact that Louis could see the difference when something was wrong.

“In what way does she seem sad?”

“Dunno. Just does.”

Neither of them spoke—Louis’s eyes fixed decisively on the floor, and Matty thinking of something he could say.

“Hey,” Matty said, lacerating the quiet. “Why don’t you see if Mum wants to take Pip for a walk?”

Louis finally looked up, his eyes suddenly bright. “That’s a good idea.”

“Cool, you do that. I’m gonna go to work, alright?” Matty said, standing up and reaching forward to ruffle Louis’s hair, causing his brother’s face to twist into a comical scowl, stubbornly dodging his touch.

* * *

When Matty arrived at work, Olly, his co-worker, was squatting in front of the electronic aisle, his curly hair sticking out in all kinds of odd directions. He used to be been in the year below Matty at school, and Matty had a vague memory of him being teased for liking art, drama and music. Olly was probably the type who was easy to tease; Matty had attracted his fair share of bullies for his effeminacy and talkative nature during school, but he had a knack for not showing when he was upset, making all attempts at putting him down feel futile in the long run.

Olly, on the other hand, was sweet and sensitive enough to be an easy target. He also had a middle-class, southern accent, which was enough to be labelled as a ‘posh twat’ in most northern state schools. Matty felt a little bad for him; when it came to groups of bored, hyper-aggressive, most likely insecure boys from towns like Macclesfield, kindness was seen as a quality that had to be quickly pummelled out of someone. There weren’t many boys Matty’s age who he could genuinely say he thought were nice, and he liked that about Olly.

Olly looked up, meeting Matty’s gaze. “Oh, hey.” He said, greeting him with a wide grin.

Matty returned it, crouching down to the younger boy’s level.

“Hey,” He returned, his eyes skimming the shop’s expanse. As always, it was almost completely empty, aside from an elderly bearded man wandering around aimlessly, who probably thought he was in the supermarket. "I haven't missed much, clearly."

"Nah." Olly affirmed, sounding exasperated. "It's been pretty boring, to be honest with you. Thanks for covering the rest of my shift, mate, you’re a life-saver."

"Not a problem. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.” He poked Olly playfully in the arm, “Where you going tonight, then?"

Olly's hand froze over the records he was stacking, his cheeks flushing pink. "Oh, nowhere much." He responded vaguely, "Just going out with some friends."

He seemed to be avoiding Matty’s eyes, and Matty wondered for a second if Olly was anything like him—leading a double life outside of Macclesfield—truly alive when he was somewhere else. He brushed the thought off quickly.

"Well, I've only got to be here for a couple hours. Then it's all cool." He said, “So this is nothing very strenuous, really.”

Matty looked the younger boy up and down, turning around and smirking slightly to himself. He thought—perhaps in another life—he wouldn’t mind taking Olly out. But he had a boyfriend, and Olly wasn’t really his type anyways. Olly was almost the antithesis of his current boyfriend—all smooth edges and soft smiles.

Scott wasn't like any of the other boys—or men—Matty had been with before. He lived in a squashed apartment in Manchester on his own, supporting himself by acting in small stage productions and the occasional radio or TV advert. He also snorted blow and shot up smack, and gave Matty all the weed, pills and booze his heart desired. He also liked fucking boys, which was the main thing he had in common with Matty, aside from the minor cocaine fixation. 

Matty had figured out he was queer sometime when he was thirteen—when he’d figured out his infatuation with one of the boys in his class was probably more than simply platonic. He hadn't told anyone else, but he assumed some people might have their suspicions about him. Many people—especially boys—found his lack of adherence to traditional masculinity strange, intimidating even, like he was abhorrent or had something wrong with him. There probably was—but Matty doubted liking boys and girly things had anything to do with it. 

He wasn't completely gay, he liked girls too; he liked kissing and fucking them; he liked their breasts and thighs and the sweet perfume they sometimes wore—but all that didn't negate his attraction to men, either. He’d also found that, over time, his attraction to men and his attraction to women weren't interchangeable; what he liked in women didn’t necessarily mirror what liked in the same sex. To him, fucking boys and fucking girls were two entirely separate things, although both were enjoyable in their own ways.

“I’ll head out, then.” Olly said, breaking Matty out of his thoughts. “Don’t tell Jamie, yeah?”

“’Course not, mate. Have fun.”

“Thanks, I’ll pay you back, promise.”

“Don’t worry about it. I doubt give Jamie gives a flying fuck what we do, anyway.”

“True,” Olly said, snickering. “Thanks anyway, I’ll see you around.”

Olly disappeared behind the counter and grabbed his backpack, gave Matty a parting nod and smile, and vanished through the front door, leaving Matty alone in the shop.

Matty exhaled, and began to stack the Suzi Quatro records Olly had left on the side into a haphazard pile.

 


	3. vol. iii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait. this chapter is v long and v wordy.

Matty had figured out how he liked his sex ages ago—back when he was first experimenting with his sexuality all those years ago. He liked it rough and hard, with little foreplay or bullshit; he didn’t consider himself particularly averse to romance in general, and he liked all that crap later, but it just happened to be the way he was. Whether he was the one fucking or the one being fucked.

And that was how it was now; his legs slung around his boyfriend’s waist, bouncing in his lap like a ragdoll, his hair stuck to his forehead, his skinny thighs beginning to shake from the strain.

The feeling of intoxication was also heightened the cocktail of marijuana and coke that he had ingested, and Matty was sure he could hear his own heart beating, its paced quickened as he clenched and groaned.

Scott finished first, throwing his head back and moaning loudly. Matty liked the way he held his hips in a bruising grip when he came, and with a few final tugs on his cock, Matty finished too.

He fell back onto the mattress, his fingers curling into the sheets lazily. The thing he liked about weed was the fact that he didn’t so much come down as much he drifted, his thoughts remaining nebulous for a few minutes after.

The blow, however, made sure he still felt alive, his blood rushing, heart pounding and chest heaving. Matty wasn’t particularly fond of exercise, but even he could relish the way sex burned his lungs.

Scott reached over and traced the tattoo on Matty’s hip, his nails grazing softly over the heated skin. He never offered to make Matty coffee after sex, or even a cigarette, like past sexual partners had, and although Matty told himself he didn’t give a shit about that kind of thing, sometimes he thought the gesture would be nice.

Scott’s finger dug slightly into Matty’s hipbone, and he rolled onto his side to face him. He grinned wolfishly, leaning down to breathe in Matty’s hair. “Let’s go again.” He murmured.

“Mmm. In a second. I want another spliff.” Matty replied, pushing him off gently and reaching for the bedside table, where he’d left a packet of rolling papers.

He rolled up a joint and pushed it between his lips, allowing Scott to graciously light it for him. He took a hit, waiting for the high to spread through his body and leave him pleasantly buzzed.

Within a minute he was drifting again, feeling light as feather, his skin hyper-sensitive; the colors around him even looked brighter, and he was sure he could hear Scott breath more clearly from the other side of the bed.

Scott plucked the joint from his mouth and took a long drag for himself, slumping back into the sheets. He pulled Matty closer to him, blowing smoke in his face in a way that was probably meant to be seductive.

Matty wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”

Scott laughed, his hand travelling further up Matty’s thigh. “You don’t mind.”

“Fuck off,” Matty scoffed, pulling himself to his feet. “Do you want any coffee?”

Scott sighed, leaning his head back into his pillows. The white of the sheets brought out the starkness of his black hair and blue eyes. “Yeah. Black. No sugar.”

“I know how you take it.” Matty said smugly, pulling his boxers up his legs and hopping into the kitchen.

He knew Scott’s kitchen like the back of his hand—and quickly located the ground coffee from the back of the top cupboard, having to stand up on his tiptoes as he did so. He put the kettle on, and wandered back into the bedroom as he waited for the water to boil.

“It’s unusually tidy in here,” he noted absently, his eyes skimming the clean floors and ordered shelves. “What provoked the change of heart?”

“You told me to tidy up, so I did.”

“I didn’t think I had that much influence.”

“You’d be surprised how persuasive you can be.” Scott replied, his eyes dark. “I ordered the books on the shelf properly and everything.”

“Alphabetically?”

“By genre.” Scott answered, reaching over the pillows to the bedside table, where Matty had left his packet of cigarettes. He took one without qualm, lighting it and exhaling a cloud of smoke, studying Matty with an amused expression. “’Course, I only ever really read the same three genres; books about fags, books about junkies, and books about junkie fags.”

Matty cringed. “Stop using that word.”

“What? Fag?”

“Yes. I fucking hate it. ‘Junkie’ is awful too.”  
  
Scott shrugged. “If I call myself a fag, it stops belonging to homophobes and starts belonging to me, so I can use it if I want. Cigarette?”

Matty reached forwards to take one, his head slightly cocked. “I’ve long since given up on reading books with gay characters. We only ever die or become villains. And that’s when we’re not drug addicts or rent boys.”

“I’m a gay and I like junk. Can’t really say there’s no truth to it.”

“Oh, fuck off. You can’t really think you’re as decadent as all that.”

“You are too. You snort more coke than any other eighteen ear old _I_ know.” Scott quipped, smoking falling from his nostrils, making him looks like a dragon.

“I’m not an addict, I just use. There’s a difference.” Matty said defensively, sitting at the foot of the bed. “And strictly speaking, I’m not gay.”

“Right,” Scott said snidely with a roll of his eyes. “You’re _bisexual_.”

"It’s a thing, you cunt.” Matty snapped, getting to his feet and returning to the kitchen, pouring steaming water into the cafetière on the counter.

 “’Course it is.” Scott called through, “All I’m saying is every bisexual I’ve ever met has ended up picking one gender or the other sooner or later and sticking to it.”

“Yeah, that’s probably because some people practice this crazy thing called monogamy.”

“Whatever you say, babe.”

Matty huffed, walking back through and handing Scott a hot mug. “Shouldn’t you be making _me_ the coffee? This _is_ your apartment.”

“You’re hardly a guest at this point.”

Matty climbed back onto the bed and wiggling under the sheets, his fingers spread across the sides of the mug, ignoring how it seared his palm.

“You take so much milk and sugar,” Scott observed, eyeing the mug in Matty’s hands. “It’s basically just hot, sweetened milk. It’s disgusting.”

“Leave me and my hot milk alone.” Matty said, taking a tentative sip of his drink, peering at Scott over the rim.

He tugged Matty gently towards him, causing some of the coffee to spill over the white sheets, causing Matty to yelp when a splash hit his skin, still steaming hot. As he looked down, he noticed the liquid bleed through the white sheets, forming ugly stains.

Matty cursed, moving away to place his mug on the bedside table. “Jesus,” he said, “Do you not care whether or not your sheets get covered in coffee?”

“I care about you more.” Scott said, uncharacteristically earnest.

Matty snorted, but still went pink in the cheeks. “Fucking hell. How sentimental of you.”

“That’s about as sentimental as I get; you know me.”

“Unfortunately, I do. And I know you’re secretly a romantic.” Matty said. He turned his head around to meet Scott’s lips in a chaste kiss, grinning widely when their mouths met.

“Are you gonna stay?” Scott asked, an edge of neediness to his voice. He was the kind of guy never to want that vulnerability to bleed into his persona; he always wanted to seem like he was made of iron. Matty liked to think that was the reason Scott liked him—because he wanted someone fiery enough to make him melt.

“For a bit.” Matty assured softly.

“How long is ‘a bit’?”

“Depends how much you annoy me.”

“Haha, very funny.”

Matty buried his face in the nape of Scott’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin. It smelt faintly of sex, soap and sweat. “

I don’t want to go,” he admitted, voice deadened by the contact.

“And you don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do.” Matty said, his voice breathy. He disentangled himself from the other man and began to redress with reluctance, doing up the buttons on his shirt deliberately slowly. Scott watched him mournfully, pouting like a petulant child.

“Can't you call into work to say you’re sick?

“I do that practically every other week. And I actually _like_ this job, too, so I’m going to try and _not_ get fired.”

Scott was quiet—just like how he always was when he was upset but didn’t want anyone else to know.

“I’ll call you tonight.” Matty promised, standing up to pull on his trousers. He bent down to press his lips against Scott’s a final time, before heading towards the door.

* * *

George hadn’t really wanted to go out—his cold had barely subsided, and the clouds of marijuana and tobacco swirling around the room were making his head swim. He normally enjoyed parties, but he’d been sick with a nasty cold for the past few days, and was still recovering, thus making the entire experience much less enjoyable than it should have been.

Various people had offered him fags, blunts and pills, and normally George was the last person to turn down weed, but already his eyes were swimming, the bass of the music thrumming his eardrums and making him feel sick.  
  
He threaded through the thronging crowd, smiling and nodding as the occasional face greeted him with a nod or a hello.  
Eventually he hovered on the frays, squashed behind a table, mostly obscured by darkness. George sat there sulking, skimming the faces of passing party-goers, searching for Ross, Adam, Amber or even Marika—just someone who was a familiar face.  
  
But none came. George wasn't really sure why he was still there—he'd only as a way to kill a Friday evening, and now he was more bored than ever.

At one point, some bird asked him if he wanted to dance, not giving him much of a choice as she hauled him rather roughly to his feet. She said something to him that was lost in the noise, but since he didn’t want to seem rude, George laughed quietly in place of a verbal reply. Without realizing, he was suddenly in the centre of the dance floor, her arms pulling him close.

When he finally caught a glimpse of her face, he saw that she was really quite pretty, with dimples in her cheeks and hair teased like an American film star. Her lips were painted baby pink, and the flowers on her blouse seemed to jump out from her chest, stark against her pale skin. Paleness was typical in the north of England, especially in the more rural parts like Macclesfield and Wilmslow, where there was little ethnic diversity and the sun rarely peaked through the clouds.

“Do I know you?” He asked the girl, touching her arm softly.

She raised an eyebrow, her face suddenly hurt. “You’re in my year! I don’t think we’re in any of the same classes, though...” As she spoke, her words slurred together somewhat, and George could tell she’d had a few more drinks than he had. 

They danced through one track, his arms around her waist and hers around his neck. After the song finished, he politely shrugged her off, giving her a small parting smile as he slinked off to sit down. He still had a headache, and the dancing had only made it worse. George desperately wanted to go home, or at least go outside and have a cigarette. People had begun to mistake him for a pile of coats due to how still he was sitting, throwing the jackets mindlessly at his head and lap. At first George was offended by it, but after a few minutes, he resigned to his fate.  
  
George was just beginning to settle dejectedly into his boredom, when he felt a pressure on his thigh. He yelped, jumping back, the fabric that had been draped over his leg spilling onto the floor.  
  
A figure jolted in shock, apologising profusely as they picked the coats from the ground, their face obscured by darkness.  
  
George squinted, doing his best to make who the person was. "Matty?" He asked, squinting in disbelief and having to shout over the music in order to even hear himself.  
  
Sure enough, he could make out the pale, angular features and dark spill of curls, even if they were only in silhouette. Matty stared down at him, looking puzzled.  
  
"George?" He echoed. "Sorry mate, I thought you were the coat pile."  
  
George grunted, dusting himself off and pushing the remainder of the coats off of himself. "Easy mistake." He returned dryly.  
  
Matty's expression softened. "You don't look like a coat pile. I didn’t mean that. You just look like a slightly misshapen human being."

George snorted. “Thanks. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m incredibly nice and I say lots of nice things.”

“You sure? Can you support your claim with annotated examples from the text?”

“Ha-fuckin’-ha. I like your hair. It’s like an Albert Einstein kind of thing, I like it—there’s an example for you.” He cleared his throat. “There’s me being nice. Happy?”

“Great, I feel much better now.”

“Can I sit with you?”

“If you want to.”

Matty grinned and slid down next to him, looking somewhat relieved.

“I’m just glad I finally see someone I recognize.” He explained, “Hann’s getting off with some girl and I have no bloody clue where Ross is.”

“Probably on his fifth beer and third irreversible mistake. I don’t really know why I’m here, to be honest. I’m feeling quite poorly.”

Matty regarded him curiously, his eyes flitting briefly all over his face. “From what I’ve heard you’re normally quite the life of the party. I thought something was odd when I saw you sitting on your own.”

“From what _I’ve_ heard,” George drawled, “you’re not normally the type to miss out on a party either.”

“Touché. Honestly, I’m just not really in the mood at the moment; I’m just finding this kind of thing so boring. Plus, I have only really have two friends here. Three, if I count you.”

“Wow, I’m flattered.”

“I’ve only met you a couple of times—it’s not as if I can already elevate you to ‘life partner’ status.”

“One of those times included you turning up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, may I add. Surely _that_ counts for something.”

Matty scratched the back of his head, politely averting his gaze. “Yeah…” he started, “sorry about that.”

Matty seemed awkward all of a sudden, as if trying to forget that night had ever happened. George still expected to hear the full story at some point, but he expected he wouldn’t hear it now. Not here.

George shook his head, “It’s okay,” he replied, “I’m not angry or anything. I’m just… bemused.”

Matty nodded knowingly, his face abashed. “I understand—I’d be confused if I were you. I’m sorry. It was—“ he cut himself odd mid-sentence, his gaze drifting to the middle distance, as if recalling a still-tender memory. “…It was a weird night for me. In, like, every sense.”

George didn’t ask him to elaborate, but remained intrigued nonetheless. Sometimes when Matty spoke, he would leave a thought to hang idly in the air, leaving George even more confused than he had been to begin with. 

“I think I’ll leave soon.” George wondered aloud with a chuckle, doing his best to change the subject. “This... this really isn’t doing much for me.”

“You live close?” 

“Close enough.” George said shortly, standing up and brushing off his jeans. The music and talking was beginning to give him a headache; all he really wanted was to go home and listen to music in his room, unbothered. However, as he turned around, he felt Matty grab his wrist, his grip vice-like.

It was Matty, still sat down, blinking up at him with sad but hopeful eyes. 

“Don’t go…” he protested, his tone subdued but stubborn, “I was enjoying talking to you! You can’t leave me here on my own!” 

George stared down at him, at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected Matty to have any interest in his company; he’d never shown any sign that he actually had a particular interest in him before. George felt his cheeks heat up, and was grateful for the darkness shrouding him. 

He didn’t have to speak, because Matty was already stood up next to him, close enough that George could smell the soap on his skin. “Come out with me,” he said, his eyes gleaming, “I can make your night worthwhile, I promise.”

George hurriedly shrugged him off. “Thanks,” he said with a nervous laugh, “but I don’t really see how you could do that.” 

“Don’t you trust me?”

George considered. “Not really,” He admitted, “considering I barely know you.”

  
“That doesn’t matter. C’mon, it’ll be fun.” Matty continued, tugging at his arm, undeterred by George’s less than enthusiastic initial response.

“Where are you planning on taking me?”

“Somewhere cool.”

“Great,” George snorted, “thanks for the clarification.”

“I’m serious. Don’t worry; I’ll pay for everything and it will won’t be anything like _this_ —“ Matty gestured to the room around them, ”—it’ll be fun.”

George had been planning on going home and doing nothing, but the way Matty spoke made him waver, and he considered Matty’s proposition silently. Perhaps it was something to do with the way he was watching him eagerly—like his response meant everything. George wasn't used to people looking at him like he was that important.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “since I don’t have anything better to do. Better be good, though, since you’re building it up so much.” 

Matty beamed, taking him by the arm and weaving through the crowd until they were outside. The fresh air was a pleasant change, and for the first time all night, George felt like he could breathe properly. Matty carried on walking ahead, his hands plunged in his pockets, his features half-illuminated by yellow streetlamps. He dipped into his pocket and retrieved a cigarette, watching George from the corner of his eye. 

“Where _are_ we going?” George said, feeling like a broken record, “Is it far?”

“Right now? We’re going to the train station,” Matty returned, still not facing him. 

“Hey, hey—what the fuck? Are we going out of town?” 

“Yes.”

“You never said we’d do that!”

“I never said we wouldn’t, either.” Matty replied coolly, “You can go home, if you’d like.” He spoke confidently and smugly—obviously knowing that George _wouldn’t_ go home, regardless of where Matty was planning on taking him. George was furious with himself for not having more willpower to turn around and walk away from him, but something intangible kept him tethered to his side.

He peered over his shoulder, half-expecting his mother to burst out of the bushes and scream at him to stop right in his tracks and come home, and probably never to speak to Matty again, just for good measure. But that didn’t happen; instead, the night was eerily quiet, aside from the voices still audible from the house they’d just left.

Finally, Matty looked back over his shoulder at him, meeting his eyes at last. “You coming?” 

Not knowing what else to do, George jogged to his side, unable to comprehend his own actions.

The train station was buried just around the corner, hidden behind shrubbery and trees, invisible to anyone who didn’t know the area well. It was completely empty at this time of night—aside from the woman at the ticket office, who looked half-asleep, only half-opening her eyes when Matty asked her for tickets.

There was only one night train that came to Macclesfield, and that only came every hour.

“We’ll be waiting forever.” George complained, as they sat on the bench on the platform, shivering under their coats, despite it being the middle of summer, in a typically English fashion.

“Don’t worry,” Matty assured, “it’ll be here in a few minutes. I timed it.”

They didn’t talk as they waited, instead listening to the sound of owls hooting and the whispering of leaves.

After ten minutes, there was whirring noise, and the train lights appeared on the horizon, speeding into the platform, a gust of breeze coming with it.

“Well,” Matty said brightly, getting to his feet, “shall we?”

George rushed after him, not knowing what else to do.

Unsurprisingly, the carriage was desolate. They sat side by side, with George staring out the window the window and Matty fidgeting by the aisle, incessantly zipping and unzipping his coat. George tore his gaze away from him, watching trees and buildings speed past them. 

“What stop are we getting off at?” George asked after a few minutes, realizing he’d never even bothered to ask.

“You’ll see,” Matty said, a coy smile playing onto his lips. “It’s the epicenter of Manchester though.”

A voice in the back of George’s head told him he should have been angry to hear that—but instead, he didn’t protest, only nodding in compliance.

George had never been into central Manchester this late, and he couldn't help but stare out the train window, totally fascinated by the passing landscape. Blinking lights dotted the horizon, window lights occasionally flickered out, vaporising into the darkness. The last time he’d been into Manchester at night was when he was fourteen; it had been his mother’s birthday, and his father had taken him, his mother and his two sisters to a posh Italian restaurant in the city. The waiters wore tuxedos and presented the food on platters, their movements flourishing. All the time George had been totally transfixed by the city’s atmosphere at night, it was completely alien compared to how sleepy and quiet Wilmslow was at night, aside from the occasional car and bored teenagers tipping cows.  
  
"Nice, innit?" Matty said. George could see his pale moon of a face reflected in the window, unusually animated. "You look like a kid in a sweet shop."  
  
George turned to look at him, doing his best to make his face look as neutral as possible. "It's alright." He answered casually.  
  
As the train halted at its different stops, various people drifted onto the train carriage: an elderly woman with flowers in her cyan hair, a group of sickly-looking twenty-somethings muttering quietly amongst themselves, fingers trembling as they held their coffee cups, bruises decorating their arms, and a woman in her thirties dressed in tight shorts, her hair scraped against her scalp, lips painted blood red. She winked at George when she hopped off, a cigarette dangling from between her fingertips. 

“This is our stop,” Matty said after about an hour, “let’s go.”  
  
The station was almost totally empty, sans a couple of homeless people and a flock of dirty pigeons. All the shops had been long since locked up, and the clicking of Matty’s feet against the marble echoed throughout the building. George was reminded somewhat of a ghost town he’d seen on the telly last week.

However, once they were outside, noise quickly greeted them. People in their twenties and thirties sauntered down the street in clusters, showing the tell tale signs of drunkenness: laughing loudly and swaying as they walked. Despite the fact that it was past midnight, there was a considerable amount of traffic, the headlights twinkling and flashing against the night. 

“I didn’t realize it would be this busy this late,” George said lamely, trailing behind Matty as they walked.

“Of course it is, it’s the fucking centre of Manchester.”

George felt a little bit stupid, and far, far out of his depth. This was certainly not Macclesfield or Wilmslow—everything felt living and breathing and alive, instead of stagnant and tired.

“Are we going to a club?”

“Yep.” 

“Which one?” 

“Not telling.” 

George examined Matty’s profile as he spke. He wasn't good-looking in a typical way; his skin was sallow, the contours of his face exaggerated by shadows. His hair was messy-curly and his bony limbs looked as if they could easily be snapped by a particularly strong gust of wind. He was attractive though—his inky features made him look as he had been drawn in smudged charcoal. 

They arrived at the doors of one particular club, adorned with flashing, neon lights. There was a long queue stretching out the side, but Matty walked straight up to the bouncer, and began to chat with him like he was his best friend. George couldn’t make out the conversation, but to his disbelief, the bouncer grunted and opened the door to allow him inside. 

“Come on, then.”

George scampered after him.

The inside was packed, loud music blaring, and expensive-looking, coloured lights cast across the room. George had been into clubs before; in Macclesfield there was one seedy club where local, generally shitty bands played to the same group of bored, underage teenagers every night. A year ago, George's friendship group had tended to congregate there, but now his friends considered it rather passé, choosing to knock around in local pubs with middle-aged drunks instead.  
This one, however, was nothing like the club in Macclesfield. It was much, much bigger, and was filled with patrons of widely varying ages, races and genders.  
Music in the club in Macclesfield was generally played by men in their mid to late thirties, doing their best to re-live the fifties and sixties Rock 'n' Roll heyday. But here there was no live band, only a Donna Summer record blasting on full volume.  
  
"Disco?" George sneered, "How American."  
  
Matty shrugged. "I'm finding rock horribly boring nowadays. Everyone's so straight and white."

George laughed, surprised at Matty’s open-mindedness. In Macclesfield, among young people, it was considered almost blasphemous to deviate from pop and rock from the last decade. He’d sort of expected Matty to be the same.

This kind of music felt unfamiliar; it was twitchy and jerking, far different from the cocky drawl of rock ‘n’ roll. 

George surveyed the bar suspiciously, eyeing the people around him. Across from him, he was shocked to see, were two women, one with her fingers threaded through the others, their lips pressed firmly together. 

George hadn’t ever seen two people of the same sex kissing, especially so freely. He must have been gawking, since Matty raised his eyebrows at his expression. 

“What?” He asked, following George’s eyes.

“Are they—”

“Lesbians? I imagine. Or maybe the one on the left had too much to drink and the girl on the right’s performing vertical CPR. 

George forced his gaze back to Matty. “Are we in a…”

“A what? A queer bar?”

George flinched. “I was gonna say—”

“I don’t think it’s a gay bar specifically, if that’s what you’re asking. The average disco club is just more open minded than the average small town rock ‘n’ roll club in fucking Cheshire.”

Now that Matty had pointed it out, George could see lots of patrons were getting a little more than friendly with the same sex. George didn’t know what to think—he’d never had much of an opinion on homosexuality, only hearing about it through the news, the occasional book and insults hurled back and forth at school. He supposed he didn’t really care that much.

“Are you…” He started, addressing Matty. “Like…. Alright with this kind of thing?”

“Alright with it?” Matty repeated, casting George an amused glance from under the strands of hair that had fallen in his face. “Yeah, I’m _alright_ with it.”

At that moment, Matty caught the eye of someone from across the room, his face erupting in a wide, toothy grin. From the corner of his eye, George noticed a tall figure dressed in purple and silver. At first, George thought it was a woman, judging from their elaborate dress. However, as they got closer, he became sure it wasn’t a woman, simply a man _dressed_ as a woman. The man grinned at Matty, coming to stand at his side. 

“Hello, Matthew.” She—he said lightly, unlit cigarette between his lips. Matty offered his lighter, leaning against the edge of the bar with a gentle grin. “Who’s your friend?" 

“His name’s George.” Matty filled in. “George—this is John.”

John offered George his hand, and George took it, using the opportunity to study his face. John’s long wavy hair didn’t look like a wig, but George couldn’t be sure. He was heavily made-up, his lips painted dark red, his eyes covered with black and purple powder—George couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Bless him,” John said, “he looks terrified.”

“I’m not terrified!”

“Sure." 

“I’m just…” George hesitated, eyes darting around the room, “This just isn’t… normally my kind of scene." 

“It’s everybody’s scene, once you get used to it. Let’s get you a drink, George. Then I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”

“Matty, it’s—” 

“Three Bloody Mary’s, please.” Matty said to the barman, holding up three fingers and ignoring George. The barman nodded, disappearing to the side.

“Matty, I don’t have any money.” George hissed, not wanting the barman to hear. 

“It’s fine, I can pay.”

 “You don’t—” 

“It’s fine, alright? I was the one who made you come—it’s only fair that I pay.” 

The barman reappeared, sliding three tall glasses across the bar towards them. Matty immediately took a long drink from his, shoving the second glass towards George. George mirrored his actions and drank, albeit with some hesitance, feeling his stomach and head warm up as the liquid ran down his throat. 

“Good?” Matty asked. 

George didn’t say anything, unable to think of a reasonable response. Instead of speaking, he slurped nearly half of the glass down, relishing the sweet, cold taste against his tongue, which burned like fire when it reached his throat.

* * *

Two Bloody Mary’s and countless shots later, George felt considerably more relaxed. The music had stop feeling so intrusive and overbearing, and had faded into pleasant background noise. He’d begun to feel rather hot half way through his second drink, and had shed his jacket, as well as undoing the first few buttons on his shirt to expose a flushed neck and upper-chest.

“Let’s go dance with somebody!” Matty piped up, slamming his empty glass onto the table. He grabbed John by the wrist, who met his gaze warily. John had notably refrained from drinking, watching the other two neck drink after drink quietly.

Normally, George would have protested—he despised dancing, unless it was the means to an end, but the feeling of intoxication had ebbed at his inhibition. Matty got to his feet in a bouncing movement, pulling George with him.

Quickly Matty singled out a girl, stalking straight towards her. She hovered on the sidelines, a cocktail in one of her hands, dressed in a fur coat so thick George was amazed she hadn’t spontaneously combusted. Iridescent glitter had been applied to her dark skin, giving it the appearance of changing colors under the light.

“You can dance with her!” Matty whispered into his ear.

George’s face heated up. “Matty, I don’t—”

But it was too late. Matty had already tapped on her shoulder, flashing her a winning grin. She returned it, tucking a strand of her behind her ear.

“Hiya,” he said, hands behind his back. “Are you here with anyone?” 

“Yes,” the girl answered, sighing softly. “My friends. But they’ve all disappeared and I can’t find them.”

To George’s surprise, she spoke with a soft American accent.

“Oh, that’s shit.” Matty said. The girl towered over Matty; she was clearly statuesque, even without her frankly terrifying high-heeled boots, but with them, she had to look down on him; the top of his head stopped at her nose. “My friend wants to dance with you. Couldn’t ask you himself, see, he’s pretty shy.”

The girl examined George with devious interest. “Really?” She said smoothly, “I’d be happy to take him off your hands.”

“Um, I’m—” George started.

“He’d love to dance with you. Don’t expect much, though, ‘cos he’s a horrible dancer.”

“I can teach you,” the girl giggled, giving George a brief one over.

George hesitated, staring back at the girl. She was definitely pretty—she looked wiry and toned, her hair a dark halo around her head.

“Okay,” he said after a pause, laughing nervously. “I’ll see you later, Matty.”

The girl grinned and took him by his hand, pulling him to the dance floor. Compared to the other person George had danced with that night, this girl certainly moved much more seamlessly, and seemed much more sober and aware. Despite being over six foot tall in her shoes, George still towered over her, and had to stoop slightly to loop his hands around her waist.

“So,” he started, “where are you from?”

“Boston,” she replied, her hips swaying. “I’m in Manchester studying. I like it here… but it’s different from America.”

“How so?”

“Everyone’s so… reserved.”

“Really? I’d think Manchester would be the place where people are the _least_ reserved. At least in the UK.”

“Guess that’s a cultural difference.” She said, shaking her head gently. “What was your name, again?”

“George.”

“I’m April.”

“Hi, April.”

April giggled, as if he’d just something tremendously funny. “How much have you had to drink?” She asked playfully.

“Just a cocktails... and a few shots, too.”

“Yeah? I can tell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

They danced for another two, three, four songs, George soon loosing track of time. April danced much better than him—moving in fluid movements around him, while he awkwardly bopped up and down. The music was growing on him, at first he’d found it jarring, but he could see its appeal now.

After one song came to its close, April firmly grabbed his hand and pulled him out the crowd. George had forgotten completely about Matty, and allowed himself to be pulled into the shadowed sidelines. Unexpectedly, she pressed her lips against his, and George caught a whiff of her sugary perfume. Her lips were soft and slightly slick—the kiss chaste at first—but eventually she pushed her tongue inside his mouth. He reached up to touch her face, brushing his fingertips over her skin.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, his hands ghosting over her waist, eyes screwed firmly shut. But eventually, when he slipped an eye open, he caught the sight of a familiar figure a few meters away—Matty.

Matty had his hand resting on the bicep of a broad-shouldered man in his mid-twenties, his back pressed against the wall. His fingers were tangled in Matty’s hair, tugging his head upwards as he kissed him. Matty’s hands roamed over the man’s chest, grabbing a fist-full of his t-shirt.

George was so surprised he pulled April off him, his hands slipping from her waist.

“What’s wrong?” She asked sluggishly, opening her eyes slowly to stare up at him. “Did I do something?”

“No—no, nothing’s wrong.” he muttered back. “I’ll be back in a bit… I just… need to talk to my friend.”

She looked disappointed, but let go of his neck nonetheless. As George reached up to touch it, he could feel four crescents embedded in his skin from where her nails had dug in.

By this point, the man was muttering things in Matty’s neck, and Matty had his head tilted back, his eyes half-hut. George approached them, clearing his throat.

“Matty?” He inquired tentatively.

Matty looked up, giving George a scathing look. He gently shoved the man off of him, and the man hissed something indistinguishable, before disappearing off.

“Great,” Matty said impatiently, watching the man vanish into the crowd, “now he’s gone. What is it?”

“I want to go home.”

“Why? We just got here!”

“I’m tired, and my parents are probably already pissed that I’m not back yet.”

Matty’s eyes flitted to April, who was waiting anxiously a few meters behind George. He felt guilty she was waiting for him. Matty’s expression as he watched her was unreadable.

“You looked like you were doing just fine when I last saw you.” He deadpanned.

“What time is it now?” George asked, ignoring Matty’s remark. 

“Dunno. Half two?”

“We should go back—it’s late.”

“Fine,” Matty replied with a sulk, “you’re so boring.”

George lead the way out the club, keeping his eyes trained ahead of him. He waved goodbye to April, giving her an apologetic smile when her face fell.

“Sorry,” he called to her as he passed, “change of plan.”

Her face fell, but she nodded.

Matty and George didn’t speak even after they were outside, side by side as they walked.

“Who was that?” George asked eventually.

“Who was who?”

“That guy you were with. Not John—y’know. The other one.”

A beat.

“Oh, him? No one. Just some guy.”

“You looked pretty friendly with him.”

Matty huffed. “You looked pretty friendly with that girl.” He fixed George with a glare. “Why do you even care?”

“I don’t,” George insisted, “I just didn’t know you were…”

“That I was what? 

“Uh… you know. _Gay_.”

At first, Matty said nothing, focusing on the pavement at his feet. His face didn’t change after George spoke, but something behind his eyes seemed to harden.

“Technically,” he mumbled, “I’m not gay. I’m bisexual.”

“Oh... okay. Well, I didn’t know you were _bisexual_.”

“Does that bother you?”

George considered. Just two years ago homosexuality was still considered a mental illness, and eight years ago it had still been illegal. He’d never met someone who spoke so flippantly about homosexuality—or bisexuality—in Matty’s case.

Matty’s was watching him with mild caution, as if he was afraid George would lash out. He supposed it was a fair enough inhibition—Northern small towns like Macclesfield were hardly known for their liberal mindset. Perhaps George’s silence was sending him bad signals; perhaps he was afraid he’d been too trusting in outing himself to George, and that George would be disgusted, or even verbally or physically attack him.

“Not really, I guess.” George said eventually, doing his best to sound reassuring, although his voice sounded tight. “Like, I don’t really care what you do in your spare time.”

Matty nodded. For some reason, he looked rather relieved.

* * *

 They sat on the train quietly, Matty playing with strands of his hair with one hand and tugging at the threads in his jumper with the other. It was driving George mad. 

“Do you parents know?” George asked suddenly, after twenty minutes of not speaking, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Yes.”

“Do they mind?”

Matty wrinkled his nose. “In principal… no. The situation in which they found out wasn’t exactly ideal, though.”

“What happened?”

“Do you really think I’d tell you?” Matty returned snidely, although his words didn’t sound malicious, only vaguely amused.

“…I guess not.”

“By the way,” Matty said, “would you mind… not telling anyone about what happened with that guy?”

“Why?”

“It’s just…” Matty stared solemnly out the window, pulling on his hair so hard George was sure it would fall out. “I kind of… have a boyfriend… 

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Shouldn’t you break up with him, then?” George tried, “I mean, if you _cheated_ on him—”

The suggestion seemed to hit a nerve within Matty, and his expression morphed into a scowl. “Stop acting like you know the whole situation.” He snapped, “You know nothing about our relationship, so fuck off with trying to tell me what to do. 

George was taken aback by how confrontational Matty seemed about the subject. He had always seemed so affable and friendly—erratic and eccentric, sure—but nice. He’d never heard him speak so tersely.

“Sorry,” Matty said eventually, sighing and wrapping his skinny arms around his ribcage. “It’s just… it’s complicated, alright? Please don’t ask me about it.”

“Okay." 

“I’m sorry, I really am. I hate snapping at people.”

“Seriously,” George insisted, “it’s fine.”

Despite Matty apologizing, the atmosphere felt more awkward than ever.

“So,” Matty began with a small chuckle, evidently trying to change the subject “didn’t Ross or Hann tell you that I was… into men?”

“No." 

“I’m surprised. Normally they don’t give a shit about my privacy.” 

“Well, I suppose… y’know.” George coughed into his hand. “It’s kind of a big thing.”

“Yeah, in Macclesfield it is. But it shouldn’t be.” 

“I mean, I don’t think I’ve met anyone who’s gay or bisexual in our town.” 

Matty laughed shortly, leaning his head against the train window. “Trust me,” he said, “you have. You just don’t realize.”

“I mean… I’m pretty sure I’d be able to tell.” 

That caught Matty’s attention, and he snapped his head around, narrowing his eyes slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

George did his best to retreat. “I just mean—I mean—you’re not like—you don’t act like—” 

“Like what?” Matty replied flatly, “Like a fag?” 

“No! I wasn't going to say that—”

“But you were thinking it.”

“No, no!” George laughed breathlessly, running his hand down the leg of his jeans. “I just mean that, like, you seemed pretty normal…" 

“So… you’re saying that liking the same gender isn’t normal?” 

“Well…” George said, stealing a glance at Matty’s cold expression. “It’s not exactly… _common_. I’m not saying it’s wrong or anything.” 

“But you think it’s weird.”

“I didn’t say that. And you _know_ I didn’t say or mean that.” 

Matty continued to scowl, turning his entire body away from George and staring out the window instead, completely silent. George really had fucked it up now." 

A few times throughout the remainder of the journey George attempted to start conversation again, or perhaps to even apologize, but all his attempts were met with either steely glares or apathy. Eventually, he gave up, staring out the window instead. 

Matty sprang out of his seat as soon as they reached their stop, ignoring George as he stalked out the carriage and into the dark, not even bothering to say goodbye. George was left dumbfounded, staring stupidly after him, his mouth half-open, most likely making him look like an absolute idiot.

“Wait, Matty!” George called, hurrying after him. But Matty had already vanished. 

George sighed, and began to make his way home, shivering underneath his thin coat. He and Matty barely knew each other, but George felt an insatiable surge of guilt after having offended him—because a part of him desperately wanted Matty to like him—to think he was cool. Maybe that was why he’d gone out with him instead of going home. Matty was like a flamingo in a flock of pigeons, endlessly intriguing and different—he made George feel special just because he wanted to talk to him.

When he arrived home and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror in the hallway—George noticed he had pink lipstick all over his face. Matty hadn’t bothered to tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psa - George's homophobic behaviour is not because he's a bad person, it's more out of ignorance typical of the 1970s. he's a good soul obvi, just misinformed.


	4. vol. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait lads!!! i'm 18k into an original novel, so that's been taking up a lot of my time. i'm going back to school on monday, so that might updates slow even more, but the next chapter i'm a good chunk into, so hopefully it should come fairly quickly. anyways, this is a short-ish chapter but enjoy xxxxxx

George was forced awake when the lights in his room were switched unceremoniously on and the curtains thrown open, making a clattering noise as they did so. He half-opened his eyes, groaning as the bright lights made him squint. His vision was blurred out of focus, but he could make out Heather’s figure looming by the window.

“Wakey wakey, rise and shine.” She said with a broad grin, “How’s your hangover treating you?”

“I’m not hungover.” George insisted weakly, pulling a pillow over his head to block out the light 

“C’mon, George. I’m not an idiot.” Heather said teasingly, pulling the pillow away from George. 

“Since when have you known anything about hangovers? You’re fucking fifteen—you shouldn’t even know what a hangover is...”

“What can I say? It’s the degenerate youth.” Heather said with a snort, “And as if you hadn’t ever gotten drunk by that age.” 

“It’s different with me.” 

“How come?” 

“ _I’m_  suppoed to be the disappointment— _you’re_ the promising one.” 

“Self-pity much?” Heather’s eyes took on a mischievous glint. “So,” She said gleefully, “what exactly happened last night to put you in this state?” 

“It was just a party.” George murmured into his arm, rolling his neck and hearing it click. “Why do you care so much?” 

“I don’t. It just seems like it was pretty wild.” 

“How come?” 

“”Cos it’s nearly three in the afternoon, and you wouldn’t have even woken up if it weren’t for me.” 

Three in the afternoon? It didn’t feel like he’d slept that long. George rolled his eyes. “It was alright, I ‘spose.” 

That was definitely an understatement. He wasn’t sure yet whether or not he entirely enjoyed that night out, but it was certainly memorable.

George cast his mind back to the blinking Mancunian lights, the nightclub, John the drag queen, April, and Matty kissing that man and then telling George to keep it quiet. He probably wouldn’t have mentioned it to anyone anyway, but George found it odd that Matty had gone out of his way to ensure he wouldn’t—like he didn’t trust him. He cringed as he recalled the way Matty had stormed off once they’d arrived home after that fight, not even bothering with a proper goodbye and disappearing into the night. 

George wasn’t entirely sure why the entire experience had had such an impact on him. To tell the truth—he didn’t really even _know_ Matty that well. He was just a boy who worked at vinyl planet, who smoked a lot of weed and had happened to have taken him out on a massive bender last night. So why did George miss his company so much? 

George pulled himself out of bed rather sharply, throwing a poisonous look Heather’s way. He pulled a shirt over his head and reached for a pair of boxers and jeans. 

“D’ya mind?” He said indignantly, glaring at Heather, who, for some reason, hadn’t got the message that she wasn’t welcome 

Heather pouted. “Jesus fucking Christ, alright.” She grumbled, stalking out with her arms crossed. “So _moody_.” 

* * *

 George figured his life basically consisted of weird things happening to him, followed by him retelling said weird things to a sea of judgmental friends, generally a few hours or days later. Or at least, that was what his life had seemed to consist of ever since Matthew Healy had shown up. 

He, Ross and Adam were sat around a table at The Dolphin, pints of beer sat in front of them. They spoke a bit about the party, and George retold his night with Matty, punctuating the story with a demand to know where Ross and Adam had been and why they’d left him completely alone, vulnerable to Matty’s impulses.

Adam told him that he’d been with his girlfriend the entire time, and _no_ he was not avoiding George, thank you very much. Ross, it turned out, seemed to have had an even more bizarre evening than George, which he spoke of in a strangely offhand manner. 

“And so,” Ross recounted, his tone oddly detached, “there I was, beer in one hand, hand-made kazoo in the other, and Keith fucking Moon’s sister is offering me a bleedin’ handjob.” He cleared his throat, “I said no, of course. It wouldn’t have been fair to her husband.” 

“No fucking way that happened.” Adam said, shaking his head and taking a long gulp of his beer. 

“Unfortunately, yes, it did.” Ross’s expression was solemn. “Because those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.” 

“What the fuck are you on about?” 

“If you’re not going to believe me, that’s fine.” Ross said hotly. “Let’s talk about how Matty abducted George.” 

“He didn’t _abduct_ me.” George protested feebly. 

“He did. It’s the gay agenda, mate. Abducting normal heterosexuals and transforming them into heretics and--” Ross shuddered, “— _disco_ lovers.” 

Ross’s voice was so deadpan George wasn’t sure whether he was even being serious. 

“…The bisexual agenda… technically.” George said lamely, scratching the back of his head. 

Ross ignored him. “Where’d he take you, anyway? Would we know it?” 

“Some weird disco club, dunno. I can’t remember the name. But it was in the middle of fucking Manchester, so I doubt you’d know it.” 

“Can we talk about somebody other than Matty?” Adam interjected, after being quiet for the majority of the conversation. The other two looked up in surprise—George was pretty sure it was the most assertive he’d ever seen Adam. He always seemed so calm and easygoing. “Can I… talk about _me_ for fucking once?” 

The other two stared at him, taken aback. It was true, Adam’s contribution to conversation was normally limited to a few short phrases compared to other people’s sprawling stories—it was rare for him to be the total center of attention. George had always assumed he was just uncomfortable with it. 

“Alright...” Ross said gently. “Something on your mind?” 

Adam looked as if he hadn’t actually expected the others to listen, and fumbled for a few seconds. “My girlfriend and I broke up.” He got out, but not without a significant pause.

For a second, none of them spoke, both Ross and George feeling a sudden wave of guilt for their self-centredness. 

“Fuck,” George said, “I’m sorry, mate. I had no idea. The two of you seemed so… _happy_. What happened?” 

“Well…” Adam looked down at his hands, “We came to the party together… and everything seemed alright for a while. But then we had a couple drinks and had a falling out. She stormed off, and next thing I knew I was walking in on her sitting on Aaron from maths’ lap.” 

Ross swore. “Not Aaron from maths! I always knew he was a fucking twat.” 

“Apparently so.” Adam said bitterly. “I reckon it’s ‘cos he’s taller than me.” 

“Shit,” George said, “I really am sorry about that, Adam. It must fucking suck. And you’re pretty tall anyway, I’m sure that isn’t it.” 

“S’alright. I figure that if she hadn’t done something like that now, she would have done it eventually.” 

“That’s true.” 

“I never liked her, anyway.” Ross piped in, “Plus, when you see her without makeup in P.E., you realize she isn’t even that fit.” 

“Don’t listen to him, Adam, he’s full of shit.” George said firmly, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“Alright… what do you want to talk about?” 

Adam cracked a mischievous, albeit forced-looking, grin. “I’d like to know when you’re going to ask Amber out.” 

George cursed under his breath, and sent a colorful scowl in Ross’s direction. “Seriously? Did _he_ tell you?”

The answer appeared to be yes, since Ross wore a self-satisfied smirk, and now George came to think about it, had been looking particularly pleased with himself all morning. 

“I hate you.” George muttered. Ross shrugged and picked at his nails. 

“I mean… it’s pretty obvious.” Adam said, “If that makes you feel any better. I probably would have figured it out on my own even if Ross hadn’t told me.” 

“…It really doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Well, if that doesn’t make you feel better, maybe the fact that I’m pretty sure she likes you too will.” 

That certainly piqued George’s attention. For some reason, his bad mood seemed to lift somewhat. 

Ross was nodding in agreement, offering George a cigarette absently. George took it gratefully, immediately lighting it up and sliding it between his lips. 

“I don’t know…” George said, mulling their words over in his head and taking a long drag. “I think she’s just being nice.” 

“Nah mate, Amber being friendly doesn’t look like that.” 

“But what if she says no? I don’t want things to be suddenly awkward between us. She’s my friend.” 

“Eh, you’re not really that great of friends.” Ross said. Again, George thought his advice unhelpful.

“She still might turn me down.” 

“You need to take on a more optimistic view on life. She’ll be down here in a bit—ask her out then.”

“Woah, woah! Seriously?” 

“Why not? Now’s as good as any time.” 

“I just… I just think—” George stammered, “I don’t know…” 

“Oh come on, Daniel. Stop acting like a love-struck schoolgirl! Since when were you this nervous?” 

The more George thought about it, the more he thought Ross was right. Why was he acting so pathetic over some girl? He ought to just ask her out, because seriously, what was the worst that could really happen?

* * *

George called Ross that evening, unable to contain the huge grin erupting across his face. At first, Ross’s mother picked up, but recognized George’s voice and passed the phone to him. 

“Hey,” Ross said, sounding a bit tired. “What is it?” 

“I asked Amber out.”

“And what did she say?” 

“She said yes.” George said smugly. 

“See, I told you so.” Ross deadpanned, “Is there anything else you needed to talk to me about? Because my mum gets pissed about me adding costs to the phone bill, or did you just call to squeal about Amber?” 

“Yeah, I did actually.” George said, clearing his throat, attempting to push aside his dizzy euphoria. “Do you know Matty’s address? I need to talk to him.”

* * *

George had always known Matty’s parents were famous, but fuck, he hadn’t expected his house to be this big. The place was surrounded by sprawling, lush, green fields, juxtaposed with a drab, grey English sky.

Despite its rural surroundings, the building itself was extremely modern, with massive glass windows looking out into the countryside and a flat roof like the ones George had seen when he’d gone on holiday to Italy. Two cars were parked in the driveway, and despite rain just having fallen, they remained spotless.

George knocked on the door twice, shifting from foot to foot nervously. He knew he had to apologize to Matty for last night, because he really did like him, and as much as George hated to admit it, he didn’t want to lose what they had—whatever it was.

The door opened, but it wasn’t Matty. It was a woman in her fifties, with dyed blonde hair and a face set with laughter lines. She looked exhausted and a strangely melancholy, judging from her facial expression, but despite this, George could tell she was glamorous—or at least she had once been. He also immediately recognized her face, even though when he’d seen it last it had been much more polished and smiling, staring serenely out of a television set. Denise Welch, his father had said her name was. The one off of Coronation Street.

“Hello,” She said, looking George up and down briefly. “Are you… a friend of Matthew’s?”

“Yeah, is he here?”

“He’s upstairs.” Denise spoke in a Geordie accent, traces of which George recognized from Matty’s mongrel of a dialect. “I’ll call him down. What was your name, dear?”

“Yeah, that would be great. And it’s George, by the way.”

“Matthew!” Denise shouted, walking over to the staircase on the other side of the room. George doubted Matty would be able to hear her—the house was so big. 

Nonetheless, a voice from upstairs replied something indistinguishable.

“There’s a George down here to see you!” Denise continued, still shouting.

After a few seconds, Matty appeared at the foot of the staircase. He was dressed in pajama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt, his hair in even more disarray than normal. When his eyes first landed on George, his face quickly hardened.

“Hello George.” He said flatly. 

“He said he wanted to talk to you.” Denise added, seemingly oblivious to the obvious tension between the two.

“Alright,” Matty twirled a lock of his hair between his fingers. “Come upstairs, I guess.”

George complied, following Matty through the living room and throwing an apologetic smile at Denise. He couldn’t help but admire the furnishing as he passed through—the furniture was all just as sleek and modern and the house itself. 

Matty ignored him up until they reached his room. It was, unsurprisingly, a complete tip, with clothes, empty food packets and papers strewn across the floor. There were shelves on the left completely stuffed with books—so much so that it didn’t seem to fit all of them, and there were piles of ratty paperbacks in every corner. Many of them had their bookmarks left inside, or had been left open or upside down. A turntable stood next to the unmade bed, with hundreds of vinyls surrounding it. To George’s surprise, he saw Matty had several guitars leaning against the wall, two acoustic, two electric, and one bass. The walls were completely covered; George couldn’t see a single spot of paint, everything was covered by some kind of poster or an old concert ticket. 

“You play?” He asked Matty, gesturing to the guitars. 

“Yeah.” Matty said modestly, looking shy for once. 

“You take lessons?” George ran his finger over the side of one of the acoustic guitars. He didn’t know much about guitars, but he could tell that they must have been expensive. 

“Nah, self-taught.” 

“Impressive.” 

Matty shrugged. “I play a lot of instruments—I’m not great at any of them—just good at a lot.” 

George laughed. “Jack of all trades but master of none.” 

“’Spose so.” 

“What other instruments do you play?” 

“Oh, y’know, standard stuff.” Matty said casually. “Flute, drums, piano, oboe… how about you? Do you play anything?” 

“Yeah, drums actually.” 

Matty nodded, and his facial expression seemed to soften a little. George decided it was a good moment to dive in with an apology. 

“Look, Matty.” George said, after a beat. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

Matty didn’t look at him at first. George thought he looked a bit wounded, still, like George had offended him only seconds ago. 

“For what, exactly?” He asked, his face unreadable. His voice was steady but weary, as if he was expecting George to fuck up all over again. 

“Offending you.”

“ _Offending_ me? You’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

“I’m sorry for implying being gay, or bisexual, or whatever, was abnormal.” George affirmed, maintaining eye contact the best he could. And he meant it. “I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying and it was fucking obnoxious. I was drunk but… I know that's not excuse. I was being ignorant, but I wasn't trying to upset you.”

Matty didn’t speak anything at first, his face contemplative, like he was deciding whether or not George’s answer was satisfactory. 

“I guess I forgive you.” He said, sounding measured. George exhaled in relief. “To be honest, I really can’t be arsed with being angry with you.” 

“Seriously? I thought it would be harder. You seem like you’d be stubborn about that sort of thing.” 

“What can I say?” Matty said, clutching his chest melodramatically. “I’m a beacon of patience and forgiveness.” 

George snorted, glad some of the tension had vaporized. “Yeah, totally.” 

Matty smiled at him, and it was a genuine smile, the kind of smile that travelled all the way up to his eyes. George felt a sudden flood of overwhelming relief. 

“Hey, Matty, can I ask you another thing?” He asked cautiously, after a moment’s silence, part of him knowing he was pushing his luck. 

“Hmm?” 

“What was the real reason you turned up on my doorstep that other night?” 

George expected Matty top to blow his top off again and for him to start yelling, but he didn’t. Instead, he only looked pensive. 

“Uh… to tell you the truth… since there’s no point in lying…” He said, hunching over and making himself smaller, “my boyfriend and I had an argument.” 

“Oh.” George said. He couldn’t think of anything much better to say. When he thought about it, that explanation made a lot of sense, but for some reason he’d expected something different—more adventurous. “Sorry about that.” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Matty assured, “it’s OK now—between me and him, I mean.” 

“What was the argument about?” George asked, still unable to curb his inquisition. “Sorry if I’m being nosy. 

Matty shook his head. “You’re alright. D’ya remember that guy from last night? In the bar?” 

“The one you were—” 

“Yeah,” Matty cut in, “that one.”

George thought back to the man who’d had his arms slung around Matty’s waist. How Matty had told him not to mention the incident to anyone. How Matty had said he already had a boyfriend. 

“Yeah… I do.” 

“Basically, something similar to that happened a while back, but my boyfriend found out, ‘cept it was with a girl that time. And then he found out, and as you can imagine, he wasn’t too happy.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

George didn’t dare ask whether or not things had gone any further than kissing that time. Matty didn’t seem to consider kissing a big deal, but still, he was obviously feeling guilty about cheating on his boyfriend multiple times, as he ought to, George thought. George had always liked Matty—but how callous did he have to be to see he’d already upset his boyfriend—and do the same shitty thing twice? If he was so desperate to be with other people, why didn’t he just dump his boyfriend? 

George didn’t say that, though, already aware of how capricious Matty could be. 

“This will probably make you go back on your decision to forgive me,” said George, “but I have to ask. Why are the two of you still together?”

George regretted his words as soon as they came out of his mouth, expecting Matty’s reaction to be explosive. No explosion came, though, and instead, he just saw Matty’s lower lip tremble.

“Fuck, fuck, Matty—” George said hurriedly, “I didn’t mean to—” 

“I know, I know.” Matty said, quickly wiping his eyes. “I know we should break up but I just, I can’t. I love him too much.” 

“Then why get off with other people.”

Matty laughed curtly, his breathing horribly wet-sounding. “’Cos I’m a shitty person.”

“You’re not, you’re not a shitty person, Matty.” George told him, although he wasn’t so sure himself. 

“Yeah, I am. I didn’t want him to find out, ‘cos I don’t want to hurt him. He’s—“ Matty inhaled sharply, “—he’s easily upset, okay? It’s just—it’s really fucking complicated.” 

“It’s fine, you don’t have to justify yourself to me.”

Matty ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah I do. ‘Cos cheating is fucking awful and I know it, I just—” 

“It’s alright, Matty.” George did his best to sound soothing, and without thinking about it, put a reassuring hand on Matty’s shoulder. “You’ll figure it out, but crying won’t do any good.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Matty said bitterly, dabbing his eyes although his voice still shook. “Sorry about this—if you do end up being my friend you should know everything puts in me in fucking tears.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

Matty fell back into his bed, so that George could no longer see his red and splotchy face. “How about you?” He asked softly, obviously trying to change the subject and make things less awkward. “What’s going on in your romantic life?” 

George, at first, was at a lost for words. He wasn’t really used to Matty asking about _his_ life. Fair enough, really—compared to Matty’s life George’s life seemed irredeemably dull. 

“Oh, not much.” He said mildly, a dopey grin spreading across his face as he thought about Amber. 

Matty propped himself up and cracked a grin. “That smile doesn’t say ‘nothing’,” he teased, “what’s going on with you?” 

George scratched the back of his head—a nervous habit. “I’m going on a date with Amber this weekend.” 

For a moment, something glinted in Matty’s eyes—and kind of glint of knowing. However, as soon as George thought he’d seen it, it was gone. 

“Really?” He said. He sounded cautious. “I wouldn’t have thought…” Matty paused, as if selecting his words carefully, “…that you were each other’s type.”

George stared at Matty, once again trying to read him and failing. Matty’s expression was opaque. 

“Well,” George said hotly, “I asked her out, and she said yes. What more do you need?” 

“No, no!” Matty said, waving his hands in defeat. “I’m not suggesting anything. You know me, just thinking aloud…” 

George didn’t really believe him, but chose to ignore the implication and move on. 

George ended up studying Matty’s vinyl collection instead of speaking to him. His records were stacked in various piles next to the turntable, seemingly higgledy-piggeldy. The one sitting in the turntable itself was an old Muddy Waters record from the 1950s. 

“Muddy Waters? How old school.” George said teasingly, dropping the needle and allowing Muddy Waters’ rich, rugged voice to fill his ears. 

Matty closed his eyes. “It’s a classic, though.” He said, “The king of rock ‘n’ roll.” 

“I’ve never listened to it.” 

Matty bolted upwards. “Blasphemy!” He cried. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I buy so many records as it is, I don’t have time to listen to _everybody_.” 

“Mr. Muddy Waters is not just _anybody_.” Matty said indignantly, “If it weren’t for Muddy Waters, we wouldn’t have the Rolling Stones, or rock ‘n’ roll as it is today. It’s basically mandatory listening.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, alright?” George said, unable to stop himself from laughing. “Can I borrow it? Would that earn your forgiveness?” 

“Only if you return it. If you don’t, I’ll have you by the bollocks.” 

“I promise! Please don’t go anywhere near my bollocks.”

“I’m serious, George Daniel. If anything happens to it—” 

“Nothing will happen to it.”

“Alright.” Matty said, leaning back again. “Just take it. Experience the Muddy Waters, young one.” 

George grinned. To be honest, he was pretty sure the prospect of seeing Matty was more attractive than actually listening to the record. At the very least, it gave George an excuse.

* * *

He and Amber decided to meet at one of the local cafés, which served cheap, crappy coffee and a variety of cakes. George had never been alone with her—and his palms were already slick with sweat as they sat opposite one another. He wasn’t normally one to be shy around girls, especially now he was eighteen years old, but something about Amber’s friendly disposition and blinding smile made his heart hammer in his ribcage.

“So,” Amber said, prolonging the ‘o’. “What are the subjects you’re doing for A-level, again? I forgot.”

This was most people in the school’s default conversation starter.

“English lit, music and maths.” George replied, doing his best to sound casual and not at all nervous. Fucking hell, this truly was pathetic.

“Really?” Amber said, smiling a little. “I could never do a maths A-level. I could barely even pass the O-Level.”

“ _I_ can barely do maths A-level,” George chuckled, “I only did it because I didn’t know what else to do.”

Amber laughed again. Her laugh, George thought, was melodic and pleasant to the ears.

“And how about you?” George continued, “What are you doing for A-level?” George was feigning not knowing what she studied, since he’d already paid enough attention to her to know she was doing music, English lit, art and philosophy. She was clever enough to be doing four—one of the many things George liked about her.

She told him as such, and he nodded and asked her how she found them. She shrugged and giggled modestly, saying they were alright, but revising for her A-levels was getting stressful. George responded that he hadn’t even thought about revising yet, which earned him a laugh, despite George being deadly serious and the admission being somewhat of a cry for help.

The date continued like that, some of the awkwardness shedding over time, as both of them realized, that above all else, they were friends who genuinely enjoyed one another’s company.

“You and Marika seem like good friends,” George said at one point. To his surprise, Amber visibly tensed. Nonetheless, he powered on. “How long have you known each other?”

“Oh, we’ve been friends forever…” Amber said, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, her cheeks slightly pink. She didn’t normally get awkward, shy occasionally, not awkward. She avoided George’s gaze. “We know everything about each other, we’re closer than sisters, y’know?”

“That sounds nice.” George said, his voice edged with wistfulness. “I’ve never really had a friend I’ve been that close to.”

“It’s nice to have somebody you can trust that way, I suppose.”

“I’ve never really stayed friends with people that long, to be honest.” George said, “We’ve always just kinda been friends as long as we needed to be, and then drifted apart.” He considered. “I suppose it’s kinda sad, when you think about it.”

“You’ll find somebody.”

They headed out the café, George having paid the waitress with the money he’d earned in the past week. They meandered down the street, occasionally knocking shoulders, exchanging playful words and banter.

George promised to walk her home, and she allowed him. Her home was surprisingly small, on the other side of town, the streets labyrinthine, every home squashed tightly against its neighbor.

“I enjoyed myself.” George said frankly. It was true—the date hadn’t exactly been the perfect date he’d imagined when he’d thought about dating Amber, but it had been nice. Genuinely fun.

Amber nodded, mirroring his wide grin. “Definitely. I’d like to see you again.”

And with that, she stood up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips softly against his. George was too shocked, at least at first, to do anything. After a second he reacted, realizing he had to lean down slightly to meet her lips comfortably, even when she was standing on her tiptoes.

George wasn’t really used to chaste kissing like this; he’d never really done anything of the sort since he was thirteen or fourteen. He normally just saw kissing as foreplay to something more.

He liked kissing Amber, though. Her lips tasted a bit like cherry. But when she pulled away, George felt himself craving something else, although he became overwhelmingly conscious of the fact that it wasn't sex.

“I’ll call you,” he stuttered, after she had pulled away. She nodded, and George turned around to walk home, not daring to look back.


	5. vol. v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey it's me!!! sorry about the title change, but i realized in the grand scheme of the plot this one was much more relevant than the fleetwood mac song. ALSO shout out to el for spotting the typo in the description of my fic, which i never did until now because i'm fuckign stupid.

Matty rapped sharply on Scott’s door, dressed in a thick coat over his normal clothes and a woolly scarf hanging around his neck like a noose. It was a warm night for a northern-English winter, but it was still nearing midnight, and the hallway outside Scott’s flat was still bitingly cold, enough so that Matty could see the puffs of air when he breathed. 

Scott opened the door a minute later, eyes wild. He had no shirt on, his tattoos leaping off his white skin. He hadn’t shaved, and his chin was covered in dark scruff. There were dark bruises under each of his eyes his eyes, giving him an intangible air of desperation. 

He didn’t greet Matty, instead wordlessly pulling him inside, rather sharply. Matty should have been angry at the rough treatment, but instead, all he could think of was how the flat absolutely stank of weed. 

“What are we doing tonight?” Matty asked hopefully, once the door was shut behind them. His scarf was pulled up against his chin, and Scott tugged it off in a fluid movement, touching the tip of his finger to Matty’s jaw. He made a movement indicating he wanted him to tilt his head up, and Matty complied. 

“What is it?” Matty asked cautiously. 

Scott’s eyes flitted over the expanse of Matty’s neck, before he averted his eyes.

“Nothing.” He said softly. “Let’s go out.” 

* * *

They ended up in a seedy bar down the road where the drinks were unusually cheap, and where dealers and junkies in the local area tended to congregate. Scott had lots of friends there, all hanging around the billiards table, occasionally nipping into the bathroom and coming out much friendlier and happier than they had been when they went in. Matty wondered if he looked like them when he was high—all dark-eyed, shaking with the effort of holding a drink between their fingers. 

Matty found the place strangely picturesque—in a degenerate kind of way. An old neon sign hung above the doorway, advertising the fact that the place was open, and the only lighting came from naked bulbs on the ceiling and bright, colored glow coming in from the street. 

The barman smiled when he saw Scott, revealing a row of crooked, yellow teeth. His gaze then drifted to Matty, who was stubbornly attempting to light a cigarette, even if it was too dark to see his lighter properly.

“Who is this?” The barman asked, a touch of amusement in his voice. He cocked his head, looking Matty up and down. “New boy toy?”

Matty looked up and scowled, bristling at the way the guy spoke about him, as if he wasn’t there. “Fuck off,” He said hotly, unable to stop himself. “Who asked you?”

Instead of retaliating, like Matty had expected, the barman only laughed. “Wow, Scott.” He said with a wink, “ _Feisty_. He’s cute, though, in a dirty-pretty kinda way.” 

Matty was about to ask what the barman meant by ‘dirty-pretty’, but the guy had already disappeared, presumably to fix them some drinks, following Scott’s wordless request.

“It seems boring here, Scott.” Matty said, turning around to meet his boyfriend’s eyes. “There’s pretty much no one here. Can’t we just… go somewhere else?” 

“My friends are here and I want to talk to them.” Scott answered dismissively. And just like that, the conversation was over. Matty hated it when he spoke like that—like he was the mature, wise adult and Matty was a petulant child. It made him feel small. Smaller than he already was, at least. 

Scott seemed to have noticed a group of his friends in the corner, hunched over the billiards table, occasionally exchanging low chortles. He strode over to them, and not really knowing what else to do, Matty trailed after him, his arms crossed over his chest, uncomfortable as all their gazes landed on him.

It wasn’t that he particularly disliked them—he just found them intimidating, with their tattooed arms, and tired faces, most likely from years of drug usage. Matty hoped he wouldn’t some day end up like them. What’s more, he could never tell if they were being leery or just friendly.

After a few minutes of polite, albeit conversation, during which Matty felt horribly out of place, he tapped Scott on the shoulder, since calling his name hadn’t retrieved his attention.

“Hey,” he told him lowly, “I’m going to get a drink.” 

Scott nodded disinterestedly, turning back to his friends and speaking animatedly. Matty couldn’t help but feel a little disheartened by his apparent indifference, he’d kind of expected his boyfriend to plead with him to stay and talk.

Matty drifted over to the bar, ordering a drink and rapping his fingers against the wooden surface impatiently. He wanted to go home and smoke weed with Scott—not to hang around here in an overcrowded bar with strange men he didn’t know.

Once he’d downed the entirety, his head feeling significantly lighter, and he considered going back over to Scott and telling him he’d wait for him back at the flat, since there was nothing really here for him to stick around for. But at that moment, he felt a hand press down on his shoulder. 

He’d expected it to be Scott, but it wasn’t. It was a girl—maybe twenty years old. The first thing Matty noticed was that she was very pretty, with dark hair and eyes ringed with black eye shadow. 

“You look a little bit lonely,” she said with a crooked grin, her tone playful.

“Uh, I’m alright.” He said, laughing slightly. “Also, I’m with someone. Sorry.”

The girl laughed, “Oh, don’t worry. That wasn’t what I was thinking.” Her eyes glinted. “And you’re not my type, trust me.”

Matty arched an eyebrow. “Am I not? So what is your type? Is there anything wrong with me?” 

“No, no! It’s just, y’know… you’re a bit too male for me.” She fixed him with a steely glare, her voice level. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“If I did, I’d be a hypocrite.”

“Really?” Chelsea tossed her head back, genuinely surprised. Matty could understand the feeling—finding somebody else who wasn’t straight by chance was like sticking your hand in a bag of coal and coming out with a pearl. “Imagine the odds.”

“You can’t be from here, can you?” Matty said jokingly, “If you were, you’d know this place is basically the queer watering hole.”

“Is that so?” Chelsea looked around them discreetly, “Maybe I’ll come here more often, then.”

“Yeah, so I wouldn't worry too much about being hit on by creeps.”

“That’s an added bonus.”

Matty cocked his head, eyeing her with interest. “So,” He started, “What brings you here… uh…”

“Chelsea.”

“What brings you here then, _Chelsea?_ ”

“Good question.” Chelsea said dryly, “I just broke up with my girlfriend at it’s my desire to get as fucking pissed as possible.”

“Sound. I’m Matty.”

“Nice to meet you, _Matty._ Since you’re so interested in me, I have to ask, what are _you_ doing here?”

Matty nodded to the corner, where Scott stood with his friends. “I came with my boyfriend. He’s talking to his mates and completely ignoring me.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, pretty sure he’s pissed with me.”

“Well then…” Chelsea said decidedly, “Should we just say ‘fuck-our-respective significant-other’ and get completely fucking wrecked.”

Matty snorted. “Seems fair.”

Chelsea smirked and ordered them both a shots. When the bartender pushed Matty’s drink toward him, he knocked back the whole glass.

“Wow,” she remarked, “how eager.”

“I’ve had a long day.” Matty replied feebly, still clutching his shot glass between pale, thin fingers.

They sat there for perhaps half an hour, one shot quickly becoming five. Matty, by then, was feeling significantly more relaxed, throwing his head back when he laughed, which he did loudly and frequently. Chelsea also became significantly more outgoing, her cheeks flushing bright pink and her eyes glittering. Or, at least, to Matty they looked like they were glittering. 

They talked about everything and nothing—but mostly unimportant bullshit. Chelsea talked about her job and her ‘cheating fucking bitch’ of an ex-girlfriend, and Matty talked about Scott, but also Wilmslow and his job, and some of the people there. As he narrated his life back there, or at least the parts he was comfortable with telling her, he realized how horribly boring it all sounded. 

“Sounds awfully dull.” Chelsea said, echoing his exact thoughts.

“It is.” Matty took a sip from his drink. They’d lain off the liquor, opting for beers instead in a belated attempt to sober themselves up somewhat. Matty didn’t say so—but he didn’t particularly like beer—but he sipped at his nonetheless.

“You gonna stay there for long? Can’t you move in with your boyfriend?” Chelsea asked.

Matty frowned, staring pensively into his glass. “He’s never offered.”

“If he did, would you say yes?”

“I don’t know.”

“But it’s what you want, isn’t it?” She said, gesturing wildly around her. “The big city!”

“Manchester isn’t even that big. Hasn’t got shit on London.”

Chelsea shrugged. “It’s bigger than Macclesfield.”

Chelsea’s words made Matty’s thoughts return to Scott, and idly he looked up from his glass, his eyes searching for Scott’s face through the throngs of strangers. He spotted him standing over the billiards table, a beer in his hand, his gaze set firmly on Matty. He looked like a live wire—his hair unruly, his skin washed out, his eyes electric. He’d stopped what he was doing, and was watching Chelsea and Matty from across the room, his expression wary.

When Matty met his eyes, Scott began to thread his way through the crowd and over to them, exchanging what looked like quick goodbyes to his friends. Once he was over, he didn’t sit, choosing to tower over the two of them instead. Every muscle in his body looked tense, and his stare was stony. 

“Hey…” Chelsea said tersely as he approached, shooting Matty a reproachful glance.

“Hello.” Scott replied flatly. “Do you know each other?" 

“Nope, we just met.” Chelsea answered brightly. She seemed determined to push past Scott’s iciness, but Matty knew her friendliness would do nothing to thaw through it. If anything, it would only make things worse.

“Right. You know he’s in a relationship, right?” Scott said bluntly. Matty knew Scott was blunt—even blunter than him sometimes—but the other man’s confrontational attitude took even if back.

Matty chose to avert his eyes, just like how you averted your eyes when you didn’t want to challenge a wild animal. He knew Scott got unnecessarily possessive sometimes, but it was only because he was insecure, not because he was a bad person, which he wasn’t, not _really_. Scott was like Matty in that way; he lived in constant fear of the people he cared about losing interest in him, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was utterly petrified of being alone. Unlike Matty, however, his insecurity manifested itself in aggressive machismo, whilst Matty’s manifested in provocative, attention-hungry behavior designed to just get some kind of reaction.

“Yeah, I do actually.” Chelsea said. Her voice was even, and it was clear she’d caught on to the fact that Scott’s demeanor was less-than-friendly, and her friendly façade had vanished in the blink of an eye. “I wasn’t flirting with him, seriously. 

Scott barked with raspy laughter. “Sure you weren’t.” 

“Back off, alright? I wasn’t doing anything. We were just talking.” Chelsea’s eyes flicked to Matty, “So this is your boyfriend, then, I guess?”

Scott’s look was thunderous. “You told her about us?” He demanded.

“Yeah,” Matty said defensively, “she asked if I was here with anyone.”

Scott stared at him for a long moment, and immediately, Matty knew he’d make a mistake coming out.

“We have to go home.”

“Already?” Matty whined. “But we just got here!”

“You’ve already made your mark.” Scott said witheringly.

Chelsea put her hands up, “Alright, I’ll go! I get the message.”

“No, no. You don’t have to.” Matty insisted. His words were beginning to slur together, his brain scattering, his thoughts suddenly murky and clumsy. “He’s being a dick.”

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Scott gripped his upper-arm bruisingly, and Matty inhaled sharply. The display of possession was enough to have him subdued. 

“We’re leaving.” Scott said. And just like that, Matty relented.

Matty nodded, throwing Chelsea one final parting glance. She stared back helplessly.

* * *

 

The trip back to Scott’s apartment was one of the longest Matty could remember.

It was dark and unusually quiet outside, and the two of them walked in utter silence. Occasionally, headlights would appear on the other end of the street, bright enough to give Matty a headache.

Scott spent the entire time with his back to him, his jaw firmly set. Matty was too scared to ask him whether or not he was angry, so instead, he trailed after him wordlessly, staring at his shoes.

They arrived back at Scott’s apartment quarter-of-an-hour later. The moment the door clicked shut behind Matty, Scott finally turned around to face him. His face wasn’t angry, as Matty had expected, but instead, painfully wounded.

Matty stared at him for a few seconds, before snapping out of his momentary trance, and opening his mouth to speak. He wanted to tell Scott he loved him, and he hated seeing him hurt, and that he was really better off with somebody else, somebody less selfish.

“I wasn’t—” He started.

“Were you gonna fuck her?” Scott asks, cutting him immediately off. The words tumbled out of his mouth, slurred and near-incoherent; Matty hadn’t been thinking about how much Scott had been drinking throughout the evening, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that he wasn’t entirely sober himself.

“No… of course not.”

“You were, weren’t you?” Scott was pointing at him now, his eyes red and blood-shot. “Like you fucked that American girl the other month. The one with the blue hair. What was her name again?”

Matty knew that Scott wanted him to say that her name was Ashley, just as a bitter reminder that as much as Matty denied it, she hadn’t just been a nobody. There had been girls other than her, and boys, too, but they didn’t matter. They weren’t Scott and they didn’t matter.

“You know she didn’t mean shit.” Matty whispered, his eyes stinging. He hated how much he cried sometimes, it made him feel pathetic and overly emotional.

“She didn’t seem to think so.”

Matty attempted to change the subject, before one of them cracked. “Scott, you know I love you.”

“No, you don't.” Scott snarled, turning away from him and slumping down on the sofa.

Matty’s was crying properly, and he opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, unable to keep his voice from shaking. “It won’t happen again. You’re the only one, alright? I’m a better person now, or at least I’m trying—”

Matty knew he had to stick to his resolution. Obviously he had promised something similar, but this time, he knew he had to actually stick to it, because he couldn’t let it all go wrong again, not like the last time, when they’d fought about Matty’s promiscuity and Matty had stormed out the apartment, only to return two hours later and find Scott unconscious on the bed with a thin stream of blood coming out his nose and an empty jar of sleeping pills by his bedside.

He’d been in the hospital for a week, and they hadn’t known if he was going to live.

Matty couldn’t let that happen. Even if Scott was a shithead sometimes, Matty still couldn’t have his blood on his hands.

“Why are you like this?” Scott asked tiredly, rubbing his temples in slow motions.

“I’m no good.”

Scott held his gaze for a long moment, and Matty expected him to start yelling, like he did when his top blew. Instead, he reached for the bag abandoned at his feet and pulled out a zip-lock baggie containing a few grams of white powder. He tipped the contents onto the coffee table, and after having retrieved an old business card, began pushing it into six thick, white lines. He snorted two in quick succession, and all the time, Matty watched him.

Once he was done, he looked up at Matty and arched an eyebrow. Within his watery blue eyes his pupils were dilated, and the area around his nostril was an irritated red. 

“You want some?” He asked, his voice like sandpaper.

Matty nodded quickly, kneeling down at the side of the table and snorting three successive lines. The effect was nearly immediate; the colors of the room around him were suddenly more vivid, and his thoughts were picking up speed, ramming and pummeling into his skull.

He got to his feet, swaying slightly as he did so, just in time to watch Scott sniff the sixth line.

Matty loved coke. He loved it so much that he thought, perhaps, of all the drugs he’d tried in the nineteen years he’d been alive, it might be his favorite. Coke made him unstoppable; when he was blown all the fragility and vulnerability than had become an innate part of him shed off like water, and if he wanted, he could kiss, fuck or fight anybody he wanted to.

When he was sober, he’d sit awake at night and stare at the ceiling, thinking about how massive the universe was, how scientists were saying that in the grand scheme of things, the earth was less than a speck. He’d think about how one day the earth would be ash and dust, and nobody would have spoken or thought about him in millions of years. But cocaine made him bigger than him body—because deep down, he _knew_ he was the most important speck of them all.

He wasn’t sure how the next few minutes went, perhaps he and Scott had talked, perhaps they’d remained in dead silence the whole time. All Matty knew was that soon he was on Scott’s lap, his fingers threaded in his dirty blond hair, his shirt since discarded on the floor. Scott’s skin was burning hot, maybe it was the booze and blow, maybe it was the intensity or the anger—probably it was a combination. The contrast in heat made him shiver, he hadn’t realized how cold he’d been. 

Scott flipped him onto his back, running his fingers up his sides and pressing the tips of his fingers into every visible rib. In exchange, Matty peeled his shirt of his shoulder, discarding elsewhere.

“Did they know how to take care of you?” Scott said, breaking away from the kiss and panting. “The others?” His eyes were dark, his pupils dilated so very little of the blue was visible.

“No.” Matty replied breathily. Scott nodded slightly, and Matty knew that had been the right answer. He pressed his face into Scott’s neck, breathing his scent in and closing his eyes. He ought to leave Scott. Ultimately, their relationship was doing more harm than good, not just to Scott but to Matty. Scott made him feel like he was on a leash sometimes, or like a bird in a cage. In exchange, Matty knew he made Scott feel subservient, like Matty could just as easily find somebody else to fulfill his needs.

He wouldn’t leave Scott, though, not for a while. He knew their relationship was co-dependent, and the only thing really left to do was sever the infected area. But fuck, amputating a limb hurt like hell without anesthetic. 

* * *

 

_Matty hated being single._

_Even more than hating not having anyone to fuck when he wanted, he hated having nobody to go to for physical comfort. Matty was starting to suspect he cared more about the latter aspect of a relationship than the former._

_And sure, he knew he could just hook up with somebody for the one night, but it wouldn’t take away the ache. Because Matty was a nymphomaniac, but he was also a romantic—the emotional intensity, the feeling of being wanted was what made sex truly something Matty sought out, not just the physical sensations. Although those were good, too._

_He’d just broken up with his last girlfriend, Jodie, that morning. Really, in the long run, it was for the best; they were awful for one another, they both cheated and unapologetically resented one another, and when it came down to it, Matty was pretty sure chasing lines was the only thing they had in common. Even if the end had felt right, it had never felt inevitable. Jodie had felt like forever._

_Still, he was only seventeen, going on eighteen. Plenty of time to get his heart broken all over again._

_And besides, he reasoned to himself, he was getting sick of pussy. Girls’ tits felt nice and everything when they were pressed against his chest, and he liked the smell of their perfume and the lacy underwear they wore, but he was beginning to miss sinewy muscles shifting under his palm, the rougher edge that relationships with men always brought, as well as the knowledge that what he was doing was still horribly, insurmountably, taboo._

_Gay clubs were hard to find in Manchester, but only if you didn’t know where to look. Matty, however, had all the right connections, meaning he knew the purpose that the seedy bar in the back of an alley in Northern Manchester really served. Inside there were drag queens, hustlers and supposedly straight, married men with wives and possibly even kids back home. Matty thought one of those would do him just fine._

_Of all the clubs and bars Matty had been to in his life, this one certainly wasn’t the cleanest. Every surface seemed to be covered in a thin film of grime, and the place had a distinct vinegar and herb kind of smell._

_He went straight to the bar, even though he didn’t have any money. That wasn’t a problem, though, he never had to worry about that kind of thing._

_At first, he’d been surprised at how he managed to attract men so easily. He’d never considered himself particularly good-looking, although he knew he wasn’t_ hideous _. He was, however, waifish and fey, with wiry spirals of dark hair and translucent skin. His eyes were too deep set, making him look perpetually serious, and his nose was long and thin, his cheeks hollowed out from years of drugs, smoking and an increasing waning appetite. His thin lips turned down naturally at the corners, and despite his young age, fine lines had already set under his eyes, no matter how much he slept._

 _He’d come to realize, though, that it was part of the appeal. The kind of_ jolie-laide _appeal some people had._

_Sure enough, it wasn’t long before somebody approached him. The guy sat down next to Matty and ordered a drink, his voice gravelly and low. Matty’s eyes flicked over to him, feline and coy._

_“Can I offer you a drink?” The stranger said smoothly. Matty turned to look at him properly now, his features half-lit by the strip lighting under the bar,_

_The guy was handsome, Matty thought. His hair was dark blond and tousled, his eyes a light cornflower blue. His cheekbones were high, and a little stumble shadowed his jawline._

_“You can.” Matty said shortly, turning back around to face in front of him, where neat rows of wine and vintage whiskey bottles stood._

_The stranger grinned, pulling his chair closer._

_“You from round here, then?”_

_Matty snorted. “Really? Not gonna put any more creativity into your pick-up lines?"_

_“Am I not good enough for you?” The stranger quipped, “I’ll go away and study; maybe I’ll be able to find something that lives up to your standard.”_

_Matty laughed at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners._

_“In answer to your question,” Matty said, his eyes flitting upwards. “No, I’m not. I live in Macclesfield, but I’m just visiting. There’s not a lot to do down there, as you can imagine.”_

_The stranger studied him. “How about that drink, then? Since you want to enjoy your time here and all that.”_

_“I’ll take it,” Matty said, meeting the man’s gaze defiantly. “A tequila, please.”_

_“Tequila? You’re not fucking about.”_

_Matty sniffed. “I drink red wine and tequila exclusively.”_

_“That sounds like something a three-times-divorced, retired mother of four would say to her newly employed maid.”_

_“What, while she was living in a gigantic mansion in the Scottish isles with her pet crow?"_

_“Now you’re just describing a character from a poem by Edgar Allen Poe.”_

_Matty laughed, placing his hand on the stranger’s upper-arm._

_“What's your name?” The guy asked._

_“Matty—or Matthew. You can call me either. Just don’t call me ‘Matt’.”_

_“Nice to meet you,_ Matty. _” The stranger said, “I’m Scott.”_

* * *

Matty woke up a few hours later, his skin sticky with sweat. The sheets were contorted over his frame, and had left faint imprints in the expanse of his white skin. He briefly groped around the mattress, searching for Scott, but frowned when he found nothing.

For a moment, he panicked, terrified Scott had gotten up and left to go God-knows-where. Maybe to get high without him. Maybe to get drunk. Maybe to fuck somebody else. Maybe all three. 

Relief flooded through him when he heard someone turn the TV on the front room—Scott hadn’t left, not yet. He could smell weed, too, intermingled with tobacco and alcohol as well as something else, something bitter that smelled a bit like vinegar.

The volume of the television was turned low. The noises coming from it sounded like laughter and squeaks—maybe Scott was watching cartoons.

“Scott?” He called out, his voice scratchier than he had anticipated.

“I’m through here.” Scott’s voice sounded strangely weak, croaking as the words came out his mouth. Matty got up and stretched, wincing at the slight pain in his lower back, before padding through to the living room.

Scott was lying on the sofa, a rolled up piece of tin foil between his fingers. A bag of weed lay on the coffee table, next to an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs. Matty eyed the silver foil; he wasn’t stupid enough to think it was a cigarette, or even a joint.

“You’re awake.” Scott said slowly, not tearing his gaze away from the TV.

Matty stood and stared at him silently, unsure of whether or not to mention the heroin. He’d always known Scott shot up occasionally, but he’d always said it was only an occasional thing, that he wasn’t addicted. Matty had never quite believed him, but since Scott, as far as he knew, wasn’t robbing old women for smack money, he assumed the habit was under control. 

He ended up not responding, sitting on top of Scott’s legs and reaching idly for the bag of weed. He rolled himself a spliff, shooting Scott a fleeting glance.

“What’s so interesting?” He asked when Scott still didn’t look away from the TV.

Scott’s eyes were half-lidded, his movements more languid than normal. “Nothing in particular,” he murmured, “just _Scooby Doo_.”

Matty didn’t speak, and Scott must have taken it as an invitation to continue, since he began to ramble on, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. If he wasn't talking, Matty might have thought he was dead. 

“When I was a kid,” Scott started, “my mother was fucking obsessed with the TV. It was just after the queen’s coronation—so everybody had just gotten one, back when they were still in black and white. At first she hadn’t seen the point, she’d said it was pointless and boring and stupid, and that she didn’t get the appeal, unless it was some kind of big event.” Scott paused for a few seconds, by appearance, lost in thought. “Then she got on junk, and her brain was totally fucking fried. She used to lie on the sofa all night with all the lights off watching the TV when she was high. She said she didn’t care about what it was about, or what they were saying, she just liked the way the light moved. When she stopped watching TV, I knew she was clean.” He laughed quietly. “Billie Holiday said something along those lines, before she died. Did you know she died virtually penniless? The greatest jazz singer of all time, and she died with fucking nothing. Criminal, really.” 

Scott was rambling now, and it was then Matty really knew how fucked up he was. And what’s more, he wasn’t talking in the frantic, manic way he did when he was on coke, but instead in a way that was languid and absent.

“I could always tell when my mum was high on coke,” Matty said slowly, “’Cos she was always so restless. Normally she’d lock herself in her room all day with a bottle of wine and ignore the rest of us, but when she was fucked up she used ot clean every room in the house obsessively—every single last one. And she’d start doing weird shit, too, like making breakfast a three ‘o’ clock in the morning.”

“Smack and blow are two very different drugs.” 

Matty’s eyes darted to the rolled up foil between Scott’s fingers, and then up to his face again. “They are.”

He ended up slotting himself in the crook of Scott’s neck, breathing in the smell of his tobacco soaked skin. Scott grunted a little, but didn’t shove him off. 

“Pass it over, will you?”

Scott eyed him cautiously. “You sure?”

“Just pass it fucking over, Scott.”

Scott shrugged and did as Matty asked.

Matty hadn’t used heroin once in his life—it was one of the ever-dwindling list of drugs he hadn’t touched once is his life. Matty didn’t consider himself somebody easily scared by the prospect of drugs, but the idea of heroin fucking scared him.

When he was fifteen, the man who’d dealt him weed and pills had warned him of the dangers of heroin in an oddly paternal fashion. 

“ _I had a mate down in London,_ ” He’d told Matty with a shake of his head, _“only ever popped pills and smoked green. His friend offered him brown when he was hungover. Three weeks later, he’d been arrested for stealing 4k from his own fucking mother_.”

Matty had blinked his wide, impressionable teenage eyes up at him. At that stage in his life, he hadn’t even started snorting coke.

“Seriously?”

His drug dealer nodded gravely. _“Last thing I heard of him, he was in prison. Don’t do smack, kid.”_

Matty looked up through half-lidded eyes, relishing the feeling of euphoria rushing through his system. He noticed Scott’s eyes on him, hazy and unfocused, but still bemused. 

“Why?” He asked lamely.

 “I’ll do anything you do."


	6. vol. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait. happy christmas, i guess?

George was buzzing by the time he was through the front door, ears pink and his heart still racing. He waved to Amber, who waved tentatively back from the street, her blonde hair braided down her back. They’d been togethr all morning, and although they hadn’t gone further than just getting off, it had still left George light-headed. Normally he didn’t particularly care about the kissing part of relationships—it was always what came _after_ the kissing that he cared about—but with Amber, it was different.

“George?” His mother called through, once he’d shut the door behind him. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He strolled through into the living room, stopping in his tracks when he saw his mother had company. His surprise only increased when he saw _who_ the company was.

“Oh, you’re _George!_ ” Denise exclaimed. She looked very different to how she’d looked when George had seen her last; she was wearing makeup, dressed in expensive looking clothing, and, oddly, looked much younger. “You were the boy who came to see Matty the other day, weren’t you?”

“You’re friends?” George’s mother asked, sounding puzzled.

“Yeah, I guess so.” George said. “To be honest, I didn’t know _you_ two knew each other.”

“We got talking the other day at Sylvia’s book club,” George’s mother explained, taking a long sip of her tea. “I was just asking Denise about her role on _Corrie_ …”

Denise flushed pink. “Oh, Joan.” She insisted. “You mustn’t flatter me too much. It really isn’t a big deal.”

They both snickered, and George felt remarkably uncomfortable. He looked wistfully at the door and planned his move, but his mother began to speak before he could make him escape.

“Denise was just saying,” She said measuredly, “how it’s her husband’s birthday this weekend and he’s having a party, but Matthew has nobody to keep him company.” She gave him an expectant glare. “You should go to keep him company.”

George hesitated. “What, Saturday night?" 

“Yes, Saturday night.”

“I don’t know, Saturday night… I’ll probably be busy…”

“Might be, or will be?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Joan.” Denise cut in. “George can do what he likes—Matthew will be fine on his own.”

“But George doesn’t have any plans.” His mother insisted. “He might as well. Besides, you and Matty are friends, aren’t you?”

“Well… kind of… but I’m not even sure he’d want me there…” 

George made eyecontact with Denise, attempting to wordlessly communicate his discomfort. She opened her mouth to speak, preparing, George hoped, to say Matty didn’t want company, but his mother cut her off before she could.

“Oh, come on, George.” Joan pushed. “You might as well. You don’t have to stay for the whole thing.” 

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” George smiled wanly at Denise, his thoughts drifting to Matty all over again—a train of thought he’d been hoping to avoid. “I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh, c’mon man!” 

“Look, I’m sorry George but my mum wants the phone—”

“Lies. You’re avoiding me.”

Adam sighed so loudly George thought he could feel it. “Look, I’ve got other plans…” 

“Like what?” George demanded. 

“Oh, you know. Places to be. People to see. All that crap.”

George snorted. “You’re so full of shit, Hann. Shouldn’t you be there instead of me? You’re more his friend than I am.” 

“Matty wouldn’t _want_ any of his friends there.”

“Why not?”

“’Cos he’s different around his family.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’ll believe it when you see it.” Adam answered flatly. “I need to go.”

“Fuck off, no you don’t.”

“Why are you so scared? What’s wrong with hanging out with Matty?”

George shook his head to himself, unsure of exactly what about Matty made him uncomfortable. “He… scares me.”

“He’s like… five-foot-eight, mate.”

“Oh, obviously not in _that_ sense! It’s just… I don’t know…” 

George himself couldn’t even quite place what about Matty made him uncomfortable. Could it be because he was fucking a man? Possibly. George wasn’t prejudice, he just wasn’t particularly used to the concept. Maybe that was why he felt so tense whenever Matty was around.

“Look, what’s the worst that can happen? All you need to do is go for, like, an hour, chat to Matty for a bit, say you’re feeling poorly, go home and get stoned or knob Amber, or whatever it is you do in your free time.”

George scoffed.

“Have you even fucked her yet?”

“I’m going now.”

Adam laughed—unusually sneeringly for him. “I’m going to take that as a no.”

“I said I’m going now!” George could feel himself heating up. “We’ve only been on about four dates." 

“Since when were you the one to _wait_?”

“Because I really fucking like this girl! And since when were you one to talk? Weren’t you spewing crap about it being alright to wait with girls just a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, but you’re _you_." 

“What’s that supposed to mean? Is it an insult? A compliment? I really can’t fucking tell.”

“It’s whatever you want to be. I’m hanging up now, my mum’s making me pay for my part of the phone bill now.”

“Fine, see ya. Also, fuck you.” 

George put down the phone with uncharacteristic force, leaning back into his chair. He’d wanted to call Amber to see if she wanted to go out somewhere that evening, and send Adam in his place to the Healys’ party. So much for that.

“George!” His mother called up the stairs. “We have to go! Your father and sister are waiting!”

George scowled, pulling the closest shirt to him over his head. A few buttons had long-since broken off and it smelt faintly of weed, but it was the best he had. Besides, who would really care? 

“You’re coming too?” He asked Heather once he was down in the hallway. She was leaning against the opposite wall in a frankly hideous pink dress, flipping through a magazine.

“I haven’t got anything better to do.” She muttered, not looking up. 

“Heather!” Their father snapped, “Be polite, will you?”

“We’re not even _there_ yet.” Heather protested. “Why are you already nagging?”

“I advise you get into good habits. Shall we go, Joan?”

 

* * *

 

The car journey consisted mainly of Heather and George’s mother bickering about what Heather was wearing, their father offering the occasional input. George got quickly bored of the squabbling quickly, and happily tuned them all out.

Luckily, the ride wasn’t long. His father let out a low whistle once the car drew up outside Matty’s house—it was as impressive as George remembered.

“Wow,” He said, “I knew they were actors, but I didn’t think their place would be _this_ big.”

Heather scrambled to look. “ _Shit_.” She said under her breath. 

“Heather!” Their mother protested. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry and all, but _c’mon_.”

The four of them walked through the darkened field and knocked sharply on the door. George didn’t quite know what to expect; he hadn’t been to an adult party in years, but then again, Matty’s parents were actors. Maybe this one would be more interesting than most.

“I wonder if any of their co-stars will be there.” His mother wondered aloud. “Maybe Denise could introduce us…”

“Oh, _mum_!” George interrupted, snapping out of his silence. “They’re just people, alright?”

“George is right.” His father affirmed. “They’re just people. Just… rich, famous people.”

At that moment, Denise answered the door with a smile. In her left hand was a glass of white wine, whilst her right hand rested on the shoulder of a little girl who couldn’t have been older than seven. The little girl blinked her blue eyes solemnly up at George, and he looked away nervously.

“Joan!” She said brightly. Her eyes flitted from George’s father to Heather, and then finally to George. “It’s nice to see you all came! Come in! Come in!”

The house was even bigger than George remembered, and the guests dotting the room only served to make the room look somehow more spacious. George’s gaze landed on Matty after just a few seconds, hanging around the other side of the room, surrounded by various kids who were watching him intently. He looked up, as if he could sense George had come in. He nodded and smiled, cocking his head as if to invite him over. 

“Didn’t think you’d actually come.” He remarked dryly once George was close enough. The sea of children surrounding Matty spun around to look at him; the eldest looked about thirteen, while the youngest looked about six, and was hovering obediently around Matty’s slender legs.

“Didn’t have anything better to do.” George told him, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Matty could have been offended by the statement, but instead his face gave away only vague amusement. “Fair enough.” He remarked. “These are my little cousins, by the way.” He gestured around him, and then to the boy siting dutifully at his side with a toy truck in his hand. “And that’s my little brother, Louis." 

“Nice to meet you.” George said with a forced grin, slouching slightly in order to make himself look non-threatening. It didn’t seem to work, since every face that stared back at him, aside from Matty’s, only looked skeptical.

“You’re tall.” Louis blurted out, staring at George with searching brown eyes. He didn’t look like Matty in the slightest.

George wasn’t sure how to respond. “Uh… yeah… I guess. Kinda.”

“ _Kinda_?” Matty parroted with a scornful laugh. “You’re a treeman!”

That must have amused the kids, since they burst into a chorus of giggles.  
  
“Listen, I’m six-foot-four. Six-foot-five at a stretch.” George insisted.

“God,” Matty said with a slight grin. “ _So_ ungrateful. _Some_ of us have to lie and put an extra inch on our height, just so people don’t laugh at us. Not that I do, obviously.”

“Matty,” one of the girls asked, grabbing at Matty’s arm. “Who is he?”

“It’s not very polite to ask me, love. Ask him.” 

What struck George was how _un_ -Matty-like he sounded while talking to his little cousin—he sounded gentle but firm, _parental,_ even.                                                                                                       

The little girl blinked up at George, a teddy bear dangling from between her fingertips, its tail brushing against the floor. “What’s your name?” She asked him softly.

“George.” George replied. “What’s yours?”

“Linda.”

“Nice to meet you, Linda.”

Linda giggled girlishly, and scampered off towards the adults.

“Did I do something?” George asked Matty.

“You were fine.” Matty twirled a piece of hair between his fingers, throwing a glance to his younger brother. “Fancy coming outside with me? I’m craving a smoke.”

“Can I come with you, Matty?” One of the boys asked. 

“No, stupid.” The eldest insisted. “You’re too young to smoke. Can _I_ come out, Matty?”

“Of course you can’t, Em, you’re twelve. Let’s go, George.” Matty tugged George out by the sleeve, giving him very little choice in the matter. He grabbed a fistful of crisps on his way out, stuffing them unceremoniously into his mouth.

Unsurprisingly, Matty’s garden was massive too. It wasn’t well taken care of, though; ivy crawled over the brick walls, the grass was half way up George’s calf, and herbs spilled out of their pots.

“My mum was into gardening for a bit,” Matty explained, as if reading George’s mind through the dark. “Not anymore. Sorry for the mess—there’s glass about, so be careful.”

Matty led them through to the back, through until the music coming from the house was merely a distant mumble. George thought they’d reached the very back—until Matty guided him through a row of bushes into a section invisible to anybody in the house.

“Fag?” Matty offered, sitting himself down on the wooden bench closest. The shrubbery was dense enough for George not to be able to see the house—it was a good place to get some peace and quiet—that was for sure. 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

Matty handed him the packet, and George let him light him up. He took a long inhale, the feeling of bitter smoke swirling down his throat oddly comforting.

“You can sit down, by the way.” Matty said with a laugh. “You look like a knob just standing there.”

“Alright. Budge up, then.”

They sat in silence for the first couple minutes, silently taking drags from their cigarettes and avoiding one another’s gaze. Matty, George thought, didn’t have a right to look as good smoking as he did; he looked nothing but elegant as pearly wisps escaped his nostrils and mouth. 

“How’s your boyfriend?” George asked, unable to bear the silence. 

“Oh, he’s fine.” Matty said, settling his stare somewhere in the middle-distance. “Not great, but he’s alright.” 

“Sorry if this seems invasive,” George began, clearing his throat. “But do your… parents know about him?”

If Matty was offended, his expression didn’t betray that fact. “They know _of_ him.” He answered shortly.

“Oh. I see.” 

“How about you?” Matty said, finally turning to face him. “You’re seeing Amber, aren’t you?” 

“Uh—yeah. We’ve been on a few dates, if that’s what you mean.” 

“How’s Marika holding up?” The question sounded terse, and George got the distinct impression Matty knew something he didn’t. 

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing! She’s just protective, s’all. Best friends for life and all that shit. You know how girls are.” 

Marika did seem rather protective, now George thought about it. She always scowled colorfully at George when she saw him, and George wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she was saying to Amber about him behind his back.

George shook his head. “I don’t get it. Birds can be so…” 

“So what?” 

“ _Possessive_.” 

“Might just be Marika and Amber, mate.” Matty took another drag of his cigarette, and tapped some of the ash onto the stone floor. “I think they’re just really, really close.” 

More silence. Less uncomfortable this time, though.

“Can’t see the stars in Manchester.” Matty said, craning his head upwards. His words were soft—they had been all night. He seemed more subdued than normal, lacking his normal vigor when speaking. “It’s too polluted.”

“You been up recently?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there most of this week. Do you want a drink? I’m _way_ too sober right now.”

A drink sounded alright. “Yeah, sounds decent. What you got?” 

“Well, the grown-ups have champagne and wine and all that shit. I reckon my dad’s got beers in the fridge, though.”

“I’ll have a beer if you’ve got one, thanks.” 

Matty put out his cigarette on the granite and disappeared back into the house, returning a minute later with a crate of beer and a bottle of wine. 

“You sure your parents won’t miss all that?” George asked, surprised at the sheer quantity of what Matty had bought. 

Matty grit his teeth. “Trust me. My parents make sure there’s a large enough supply of booze at all times.”

George wanted to ask him what he meant, but he sensed it wasn’t the best idea. He swigged every now and then from his beer, but noticed Matty only ever took tentative sips. 

“Don’t like the beer?” He inquired, after seeing Matty look down at his bottle rather distastefully. 

“To tell you the truth,” Matty began sheepishly, “I fucking hate beer.” 

“Why do you drink it if you hate it?” 

“I think I was trying to impress you.” Matty admitted. “One of the lads and all that.” 

“God, you’re embarrassing sometimes.” 

“Shut up. You’re _embarrassing_.” Matty snapped, but he was smiling.

“You know,” George deadpanned, “I don’t think I can think of a _less_ laddish person than you.

“I could totally be a lad if I wanted to.” Matty said, taking a long drink and wincing as he did so. “God, how do people drink this stuff? It tastes like piss.” 

“If you hate beer so much, what _is_ your drink of choice?” 

“Red wine and tequila. Exclusively.”

“Ooh, get you. I don’t think my tastes are as refined as yours.”

“I’m plenty refined.” Matty ducked down to fish out another cigarette and grab the wine from where it was lying on the floor. “That’s why I drink straight from the bottle. ‘Cos I’m _classy_.”

As if to punctuate, he pressed the mouth of the wine bottle to his lips and poured half of it down his throat, impressively, without even flinching.

“Fucking hell.” George said, once he was done. “You don’t do anything half-way, do you?” 

“I thought this had been established by this point.” 

George laughed, prying the bottle from between Matty’s fingers and taking a sip for himself. For a brief second their fingers brushed, and George tried his best to ignore the surge of electricity jolting up his arm. 

“Was Manchester good, by the way? I never asked.” He said, trying to spark up conversation again after a few long seconds of silence.

“Oh, it was how it always is. I didn’t really go out much—just stayed in with my boyfriend.”

“Still working at Vinyl Planet?”

“I got fired.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, mate.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” Matty shifted closer, taking back the bottle. He smelled like sweat, smoke and soap. “That place was dead anyway.”

“You gonna look for another job?”

“Well, I kinda have to. Can’t just hang about and wank all day, as much as I’d like to.” 

“Where next?” 

“Oh, I dunno. Wherever will take me, s’pose.” 

George lit another cigarette, stamping the butt of the last on into the floor. Chainsmoking was becoming a nasty habit—the stink of smoke was beginning to cling to all his clothes.

“Do you like her? Amber?” Matty asked. _A quick change of subject_ , George thought.

George considered. It didn’t take him long to consider. “Yeah,” he said, “I do. I really do—Amber’s great.”

“I can see that. She’s cool. I’m glad you like each other.” 

“How about you? You said you went to see your boyfriend in Manchester, right? How’s he?” 

Matty looked pensive, gazing wistfully at his shoes. “He’s… I don’t know, really.” He admitted. His voice was beginning to slur, just a little. “He’s in a pretty shitty place right now, if we’re being honest.”

George wasn’t quite sure what to say—he hadn’t anticipated Matty being so frank. Then again, he found it difficult to anticipate anything Matty did. “How so?” 

“Well… I guess he’s a troubled guy, let’s put it that way.” Matty’s silhouette shifted, and drew up on of his legs to his chest, tucking his knee under his chin. “It’s just tough, y’know? When you’re with someone like that it’s difficult to…” He trailed off. 

“Difficult to what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” George insisted. “What do you mean?” 

“What I mean,” Matty said pointedly, “…I don't want to _hurt_ him. I don't want to push him into an even shittier place than he’s already in. But I cant…” 

“Can’t what?” 

“I can’t deal with… all that. It’s fucking draining—and I’m basically where he is right now, so I don’t really know what the fuck I’m supposed to do.”

Matty’s voice shuddered as he spoke, with the uncertainty of somebody who knew he was saying too much.

“Do you really want to be with him?” 

Matty’s face didn’t move. Instead of a break in expression, whether it be anger, revelation or sadness, as George had expected, Matty was only impassive. “I don’t know.”

Diana Ross’s voice drifted through to the end of the garden, muffled by distance and the sound of chatter. 

George studied Matty for a few seconds, drinking in his translucent skin, wisps of dark hair, straight, thin nose, deep-set eyes and willowy physique. He looked like no one George knew; in a town like this, where people were born, lived, raised a family and died, people who were intended for bigger, more grandiose things stuck out like a sore thumb, and nobody stuck out as much as Matty.

“How did you realize you were bisexual?” George blurted out. 

“I guess I always knew,” Matty replied, unfazed. “I always just found myself looking at boys _and_ girls; I never really thought much of it until I found out that I apparently wasn’t _supposed_ to look at people of the same sex in the same way.”

“Does it scare you? Being… who you are?”

“Yeah, sure it does. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna shove myself back in the closet.” He huffed, pulling the sleeves of his shirt over his fingers. “You wanna go inside? I’m fucking freezing. Besides, I got an eighth back in my room that I’ve been meaning to smoke, you can have some if you want.”

George nodded. “Sounds decent.”

The two of them threaded through the grass back to the house, George keeping his eyes down in a weak attempt to avoid prying eyes once they were inside. It didn’t work, though, since as soon as they were through the front door, George felt an arm swing over his shoulder. He looked down in surprise to see it was his father, red-faced and laughing.

“George!” He exclaimed. “I’d wondered where you went.”

“Me and Matty went out into the garden. We’re gonna go up to his room now, if that’s alright?”

“That’s fine son,” his father’s grin showed no sign of ebbing. “I’m just glad you’re having fun.”

“Yeah, tons of fun, Dad.” George sidestepped his father’s grip and slipped through the crowd back to Matty. The place was definitely fuller now, and the guests were laughing more loudly and heartily than they had been half an hour ago. God, had it been an hour already? “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Matty’s room was even messier than George remembered. Matty apologized absently, reasoning that he’d been pretty distracted lately, but George got the impression that he was never _not_ distracted. 

“Sit anywhere.” He told George, rummaging through his drawers and retrieving his tin.

He rolled himself a spliff remarkable quickly, twirling it in his fingers with a self-congratulatory grin. He opened the window far enough for him to lean half way open, tucking the spliff between his lips and lighting up.

“Give us a drag.” George muttered. 

“Sure.” Matty budged over, allowing George space to stand next to him. George took the spliff from between his fingers and took a long drag, blowing smoke carefully out the window. 

“Can’t your mum tell when you’ve been smoking in here?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t think she really cares.” Matty said with a derisive snort. “She’d be pretty hypocritical if she went off on me for drugs.” 

George wanted to push for more information, wondered if Matty _wanted_ him to push for more information, but he chose to stay quiet, choosing to focus on getting high instead.

“Do you do drugs other than grass?” 

Matty raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Not really. Shrooms and acid occasionally. Don’t like acid much anymore, though.”

“Bad trip?”

“I thought Ross was turning into an octopus.”

Matty chuckled. “Fair enough. In answer to your question… yeah, I do. Nothing proper hard though… not really.” 

“You ever tried junk?” 

Although took nearly a minute to respond, George knew the answer as soon as the words had left his mouth.

“…I’ve never _injected_ it.” 

George couldn’t hide his shock. He’d asked the question half-jokingly, expecting Matty to slap his arm and insist that, no, of course he’d never done _heroin_.

“So you have done it, then? That’s what you’re saying? Did you smoke it or some shit?”

Matty didn’t answer. George took his silence as a yes. 

“Coke?” He asked. 

“Yes,” Matty said impatiently “but coke’s completely different to junk.” 

“Dunno, mate. Pretty sure it counts as hard.” 

“Yeah, maybe _you_ think it’s hard.” Matty replied, defensive. “In fucking _Macclesfield_. It’s nothing like that in America, you can practically buy it from your local corner shop it’s so easy to find.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, mate. I’ve heard it erodes your septum if you snort too much.”

“Oh, hop off, won’t you?”

“Alright, alright! I’d just advise you stay off the smack.” 

“I’m not some _smackhead_ , if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve only tried it once.”

“If that’s what you say. Just offering my advice.” 

“Well, I didn’t ask.” 

Matty continued to simmer silently for a few minutes, sparking himself a joint and reluctantly passing it over to George. He had only turned on the lamp on the side of his bed, leaving the room in darkness aside from the twilight outside, and the yellow light coming from the other side of the room.

It took a few minutes for George to begin to feel even a little light-headed, and he even swayed slightly as he reached for the wine bottle on the floor, earning him a snicker from Matty.

“You’re a lightweight.” He jabbed.

“I’m not a lightweight,” George insisted, “I just drank that beer really quickly, s’all.”

“To be honest, this stuff’s stronger than most the shit you get. It’s hash.”

“What’s the difference?” 

“It’s the weed residue,” Matty said, cocking his head, his expression one of a connoisseur. “It’s more potent.”

“You seem to know what you’re talking about.”

“There are only three things in the world that I actually understand, George—music, sex and drugs.” 

George felt something curl in his stomach.“Sex, huh?” He asked. “Do you think you could give me any advice?”

“You feel you need it?” Matty asked, a faint sneer on his face.

“I’m just curious, since you claim to know everything about it.” He finished the last of the joint, putting it out using the cool stone of the windowsill.

Matty blinked. “You think I have… tips?”

George met his gaze straight on. “I know you have _tips_.” He deadpanned. 

Matty stared at him for a few seconds, before bursting into laughter. “Alright,” He said, still giggling. “I walked into that one.” 

George took a cig from his pocket, grinning mischievously at Matty as he lit it. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself there.” 

“But seriously, why are you asking? Did you disappoint Amber?”

“No, no! It’s not that. We haven’t even _had_ sex, I’ll have you fucking know.” 

“Oh, how chivalrous of you.”

“What, are you a sex on the first date kinda guy?”

“I’m a sex _before_ the first date kinda guy.”

“Classy.”

Matty picked the cigarette from between George’s lips with a coy smile, taking a drag. “That’s me. A man of class and sophistication.”

He was even closer to George than he had been before, the top of his head inches away from George’s shoulders.

Maybe it was the booze and the weed, but the image of Matty with some anonymous, faceless man flashed through George’s mind without warning. He should have pushed the thought aside, but instead, he allowed it to linger uncomfortably long.

He found himself pressing his lips to Matty’s without really thinking about it, in retrospect, he’d blame it on the grass kicking in at that exact moment. To his surprise, Matty even kissed back, leaning up on his tiptoes to reach George’s mouth better, his hand pressing softly against his chest. George let his fingers tangle in Matty’s hair, and _God,_ George couldn’t believe how much he was enjoying this. Matty was surprisingly pliant, opening his mouth for George and wrapping his arms around his neck to give himself more leverage, and for a second, it was perfect, like the entire world had frozen around them.

And then, Matty pulled abruptly away.

“I… I have a boyfriend.” He said breathlessly.

“Yeah.” George replied, his heart thudding. He took a step backward. Music drift up from downstairs, and someone let out a particularly hysterical laugh. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t cheat.” Matty said, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head away, drumming his fingers against his arm relentlessly. “I’m…I’m not that person anymore.” 

“Yeah, I understand. I shouldn’t have kissed you.” 

“ _No_ ,” Matty said with unusual force. “You really shouldn’t have.” 

Matty was still panting, his skinny arms wrapped around his ribs, his eyes shining slightly. George opened his mouth to say something, but the words were quickly swallowed as Matty crashed their lips together once again.

George pulled him closer by the waist, his hands taking a fistful of his thin t-shirt. George had never kissed a man before, but he’d expected it to be very different from kissing a girl—more aggressive—but Matty wasn’t aggressive at all. He seemed to melt in George’s arms, enough so that George thought he might collapse if he let go of him.

He’d pinned Matty to the opposite wall without really thinking about it, sliding his hands up the other man’s sides. Matty’s lips moved to his neck for a few seconds before he stood on his tiptoes to whisper in George’s ear. 

“I thought you were straight?” Matty murmured against his mouth as they paused for breath.

George grunted non-commitedly, cupping Matty’s neck with his hand and kissing him again. He didn’t like it when they weren’t kissing.

“That’s not really an answer,” Matty whispered, but didn’t altogether too bothered by George’s lack of a response. 

George resorted to kissing him again, tugging gently on his hair as he did so. Matty opened his mouth with a slight groan, his hand ghosting down George’s chest. When Matty’s hand reached the fabric over George’s crotch, he inhaled sharply. 

Matty dropped to his knees extraordinarily quickly, looking up at George through the strands of hair falling in his face. For a moment, neither of them do anything, only staring at each other in silence. Matty’s eyes were glazed over and questioning, asking George if he wanted more. George looked away, which he supposed was his way of saying yes. He threaded his hands back through Matty’s hair, tugging slightly and causing Matty to emit a small moan.

Matty tugged his trousers down to his knees, peering upwards as he took George’s cock out of his underwear. If he closed his eyes, George thought, he could imagine Matty was a girl, but Matty’s eyes were so fixed on his, he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare down at him.

He felt Matty’s breath on his cock and let out a shudder, embarrassed at how loudly it came out. Matty didn’t seem bothered, his eyes were glazed over as his lips rubbed over the tip. George’s grip tightened in his hair.

“Fuck, Matty…” George said through gritted teeth, all the muscles in his stomach tense.

When he first felt the wet warmth around his cock, George’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull. Matty swirled his tongue around the head dutifully, staring up at George through thick, dark eyelashes. When Matty was giving head, George noticed, his cheeks hollowed out in the same way as they did when he smoked, his eyes even taking on the same hazy look. Matty wrapped his hand gently around the base and took his mouth off with a delicate sigh, as if preparing himself to go back in.

“You just gonna sit there?” George asked gruffly, after a few seconds of Matty doing nothing.

Matty’s eyes glinted and he looked ready to respond, but before he could open his mouth to either finally suck George’s cock or add a dry comment, his eyes fixated on something behind George, and before George could register anything, he’d dropped his cock and scooted away.

George whipped around, spurred by Matty’s apparent shock. To his horror, the door was half ajar, his father standing in the doorway.

He was half in silhouette, but George could see that his face was red, his eyes in shadow. 

“Dad…” George started. 

His father shifted, and just from that singular movement, George could tell he was drunk. His eyes were fixed on Matty, and now that he had stepped into the light somewhat, George could see, of all things, the mixture of fear, confusion and anger behind his eyes. 

“George.” His father said flatly. “We need to go.”

“Dad, it’s only ten, how about Mum—”

“We’re all going.” He snapped. When George didn’t move, he ran an exhausted hand through his hair. “I said, we’re fucking going!” 

Matty was sitting in the shadows, his gaze on the floor. George tried to catch his eye, but failed. He did his zip back up in a hurry, and scrambled after his father, who was already making his way down the stairs.

“Dad!” He called after him, “Wait, you have to listen—”

But his father wasn’t listening. He was storming through the throng of guests downstairs, and at first, George thought he was searching for his mother, but on closer inspection he realized he was searching for Matty’s parents.

Denise was stood in the kitchen, a glass of wine in her hand, her face flushed. She smiled when she first saw George’s father, but her smile waned when she caught sight of his thunderous expression.

“Is something wrong?” She asked lightly.

“You call yourself a parent?” He asked venomously. Tim Healy appeared from a few feet away at his wife’s side, his face suddenly concerned. 

“Excuse me?”

“Letting your son behave like _that_.” He was slurring his words, and George felt his face heat up.

“Like what?”

The room had gone quiet, all eyes on the altercation. From the corner of his eye, George spotted Matty descending the staircase. He turned around to look at him, surprised to see that his face wasn’t fearful, but instead solemn and resigned. His eyebrows were knitted together and his eyes looked desolate, gleaming with what looked like the beginnings of tears.

“Oh, you know fully well what I’m talking about.” His father spat. “You know full well your son fucks _men_.

If the room were tense before, it was nothing like now. Someone had turned the music off, and everybody, regardless of what they’d been doing before, seemed hypnotized by the scene playing out before them. 

Tim stepped forward. “Yes, we know our son’s _preferences_.” He said coolly. “But, really, considering all the other shit we both know he gets up to, we don’t really consider who he chooses to sleep with to be an issue.”

His father shook his head. George’s mother had appeared at his side, her eyes gleaming with tears, her cheeks a vivid red.

“We’re going home.” His father muttered. To George’s surprise, his mother shook her head.

“I’ll get home on my own.” She whispered. 

George thought his father might explode at the disloyalty, but instead he just shook his head and stalked out the room, clearly expecting George to follow. George scampered after him, throwing Matty a final apologetic glance, catching a quick glimpse of him, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso, tears streaking his cheeks. 

Outside, George’s father was lighting a cigarette.

“Dad,” George said, having to stoop down to talk to his father properly. “You need to listen to me, alright? It’s—”

His father stopped at the car, parked just outside the Healy’s house. “Get in the fucking car, George.” 

“We shouldn’t be driving, you’re fucking drunk. Just wait, and listen to me—” 

“I said get in the fucking car!”

George wanted to argue, but instead, he did as he was told.

The car was freezing after sitting the cold for so long, and George shivered in his seat, even under his coat, a jumper and a shirt. He chose to sit in the back seat, wanting to be as far away from his father as physically possible.

They drove in silence for the first five minutes, until the car lurched to a stop as a bike sped in front of it, barely missing the cyclist. George’s father swore and smacked the wheel, causing George to jump.

“Listen, Dad. We didn’t--we were just—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, George.” His father said through grit teeth. “I know what you were fucking doing. I don’t want you around that Healy kid anymore—I don’t him anywhere remotely fucking _near_ you.” 

George’s thoughts went back to Matty as his heart hammered in his chest. He ached just thinking about him, realizing with sudden, creeping realization, that he wasn’t ready for Matty to stop being a part of his life. Matty—who showed up to his house in the middle of the night, who spent his time smoking weed and babbling about Nina Simone, or Marvin Gaye, or King Crimson, or whoever else he was currently obsessed with. Matty, with his sunken-in eyes and too-thin face, who laughed too loud and constantly fidgeted in his seat.

“You should drive slower.” George told his father measuredly.

“Don’t tell me what do, all fucking right?” He turned around to face George properly, one hand on the wheel. “You’ve fucking humiliated me, you know that? If you’re going to do shit like that, make sure you do it where nobody will ever, _ever_ find out about it—”

George’s heart stopped, and suddenly, the earth slipped from beneath him. There was a ringing, unbearable pain in his head, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did you know most people in the 70s didn't actually think coke was addictive? seriously, magazines were advertising things to store your cocaine in, i was fucking nuts, google that shit.


	7. vol. vii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait lads, no i havent discontinued this fic lol, ive just been been busy and had personal stuff. fun fact: this next chapter, set in manchester, is being uploaded from manchester instead of the normal london place. more or less exactly where i reckon scott would live. this chapter is also short, but its necessary for the progression of the story. but hopefully chapter 8 will be quite a bit longer x

If coke was fire, Matty thought, smack was a warm, inviting bath.

Sure, he’d said he’d quit smack. That had been a misrepresentation of the true. Or, more bluntly put, a lie.

He wasn’t an addict, though, that role was reserved for Scott.

Scott shot up, smoked and even snorted his way through a couple grams every day, and that wasn’t even counting the weed, booze and coke on top of that. As a result he seemed to spend every moment locked in an impenetrable haze, and most of the time, Matty was happy to stay in it with him. Occasionally, though, when Matty was pulled up to the surface in a startling moment of clarity, Scott would feel like he was a million miles away, sitting there, smacked-out and staring blankly at the TV. The light would paint his expressionless face in black and white.

Matty liked him better on grass. Or coke. Or basically drug that wasn’t an opiate. Sex on opiates was shit—it was slow and difficult to get hard—you had to put _way_ more work in, which was the exact opposite of what you wanted to do when you were smacked out. When either of them were on H, they didn’t fuck, they sat in silence and listened to records or watched old films.

Cocaine was a different story. Coke burned and scorched, made everything more intense, made your thoughts run faster, made you more restless. Coked-up sex was on an entirely different level.

As soon as that powder was up Matty’s nose (or running through his veins, since he’d warmed to dissolving the stuff and taking it intravenously as of late) the blissful, opiate haze vanished, replaced with something far more urgent.

Occasionally, Matty would think of George. Then he’d knock back three valium and the thought would go away.

* * *

 

He’d skipped town just a few days after the incident at the party. He might as well have had the words ‘faggot murderer’ branded across his shirt; people looked at him, at best, like he was an alien, at worst, like he’d crashed that fucking car himself. It would normally be followed by hushed voices echoing the words ‘poof’ and ‘queer’—as well as worse words that Matty did his best not to think about.

George had survived the crash, but not without damage: a broken leg and a fractured wrist, as well as an array of colorful bruises and cuts. Still, from what Matty had heard, it could have been much, much worse.

George’s father father hadn’t been as lucky. The impact had shattered his spine. Dead on the scene.

“I’m going to get some coffee.” Matty murmured to Scott’s sleeping form, slumped over thin, white sheets, utterly unmoving. For a horrifying second, Matty thought he might be dead. Then, the figure shifted, and Matty breathed a sigh of relief. “Want any?” He asked meekly.

Scott shifted again, which Matty took as an affirmative. He rose wearily, studying the flat around him with a detached kind of disgust. It was nearly night now, despite the fact that he and Scott had both been sleeping. Silhouettes of beer cans, wines bottles, Rizzla packets could be seen, and the stench of vinegar and cigarettes made him wince.

He made two cups—from the instant powder—sans milk, since they’d long since run out. He added extra sugar to make it vaguely drinkable.

Matty had fled Wilmslow as soon as he’d heard the news of George’s father’s death. His mother had told him in the late evening, and as soon as he was alone in his room, he’d packed his bags, ran to the station and bought a ticket straight for Manchester. Scott, of course, hadn’t asked any questions when he arrived on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

He placed the coffee on the table next to the bed, and slipped back under the sheets, reaching for the spliff next to the bed and rolling himself another joint.

* * *

Matty wasn’t sure how many weeks it had been since he came to Manchester. Two? Three? Four? He couldn’t be sure. The days blurred together in a sluggish haze.

He watched a lot of TV, but didn’t manage to absorb any of it, each broadcast simply a series of colors, shapes and unrelated sounds. They played a lot of records, but each song simply went through one ear and out the other. Matty had tried to pick up a book a number of times, but each time he hadn’t gotten further than the first page, re-reading the first sentence over and over again until it gave him a headache.

Not many people visited, apart from dealers. Matty knew nobody in Manchester and Scott didn’t have many friends. So, they spent most of their time in each other’s company, but that just made Matty feel more alone than ever.

* * *

 

He’d only ever gone out to the shops to restock on rolling papers and food, but today Scott had barked at him to go out and restock their supply. He’d shoved a list of addresses and numbers into his hand, unwilling to even strain himself enough to get out of bed. Matty hated days like this, days where Scott wouldn’t move, where only the enticement of drugs would tempt him to even speak to Matty. Most of all, Matty hated how he felt like it was his fault.

On his way out of the apartment block he rolled himself a ciggie, nearly dropping the filter because his hands were shaking so much. It was darker than he’d expected outside—7pm, according to his watch. Time was slipping through his fingers like water.

The first address on the list was for a guy called Michael, who lived just around the corner. Unfortunately for Matty, Michael’s apartment was on the top floor, and he wheezed as he climbed staircase after staircase, realizing that the six years he’d spent smoking thirty to forty a day were probably beginning to catch up with him. 

At first, nobody answered the door. When Matty knocked the second time, the door immediately swung open, revealing a tall, sallow-looking man in his late-twenties. He had with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and he was dressed in a white wife-beater, stubble shadowing his chin. Other than that, his face was indistinguishable.

“What the fuck do you want?” He snapped, his yellowed eyes flickering up and down Matty’s shivering figure. Judging from Matty’s appearance, he probably thought he was a beggar. Or a rentboy.

“I—I’m Scott’s friend.” Matty said shakily, hugging his arms across his chest. “You’re Michael, right?”

Michael nodded slowly.

Matty took a deep breath. “You got smack? We’re running low.”

“I’ve only got a few grams left.” Michael said flatly, taking a puff of his cigarette. “Normally I wouldn’t sell any until I’ve stocked up. But for Scott… I’ll make an exception. Y’know, since he’s a mate and all.”

“Thanks,” Matty said with a nervous smile. “I appreciate it.”

Michael studied him silently. “Say nothing.”

Matty followed him inside, through an empty kitchen and into on of the bedrooms. The entire place smelt like a grow-up, enough so that it made even Matty wince.

Michael dug around in a draw, digging out two rank-looking bags of fine, white powder.

“It’s six for a gram.” He said shortly. “It’s good shit, though. Shoot it up and you’ll understand why you paid that extra money.”

“I’ll take two." 

Michael’s face lit up, as if he hadn’t really expected Matty to take the deal. “I appreciate your business,” He said with a crooked grin. He pressed a bag into Matty’s hands, and Matty, in turn, passed over his crumpled clump of notes. He slipped the bag into his pocket, and checked the next place on the list. This guy, he assumed, would be supplying the coke. There wasn’t an address with this guy—just the initials H.K. and a phone number.

* * *

Matty left Michael’s after a murmured ‘thanks’, just as it began to rain outside. He scowled as he ventured out into the cold, running towards the nearest phone box, fumbling to open the door.

He dialed H.K.’s number with trembling hands; his hands nearly slipped over the dials. H.K. picked up after just a few seconds, to Matty’s overwhelming relief.

“Hello?” A cool, feminine voice answered.

“Hi, my name’s Matthew, I’m looking for a uh—H.K.?”

“Yeah, that would be me." 

“Yeah, I’m Scott’s friend. Got any white right now?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a few grams on me now. Whereabouts are you?” The woman’s voice was brisk and businesslike. A bit posh, too, to Matty’s surprise. 

“Just outside Scott’s flat.”

For a moment, H.K. was silent. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Where exactly are you?”

“Uh, I’ll be outside Woolworths.”

“Great. I’ll be there in ten.”

Matty waited for H.K. as promised, struggling in vain to light a cigarette, even when the wind kept blowing out his light. H.K. had told him she’d have blonde hair and was young-ish, and that she’d be in a car.

* * *

 

It was around half an hour before a silver car drew up beside the road, and a young, pretty looking girl who looked around Matty’s age got out a black cab. She quirked her eyebrow at Matty, gesturing for him to follow her. He did so, into the alley running by the side of the nearest block of flats.

The girl was pretty, drowning in oversized men’s clothes that completely obscured her figure. 

“I’ve only got three grams on me right now, so that’s the most I can give you.”

“How much per gram?”

“Five.”

“Decent, I’ll take all three.”

“Stocking up?”

Matty snorted.

“I guess not, then. Want any draw? I’ve got a half on me.”

“Yeah sure, I’ll just take an eight, though. We’ve got plenty.”

H.K. grinned. It wasn’t the kind of grin drug dealers normally gave Matty—all slime and exploitation. This girl’s smile seemed genuine. Matty wondered where the hell Scott had met someone like _her_.

She handed him a bag of blow and a bag of green, and he shoved them both hurriedly into his bag.

“Right,” he said, “thanks for coming to meet me.” 

“Wait, wait!” H.K. said, catching him by the arm as he began to turn to leave. “You know Scott, don’t you? _How_?”

Matty looked her over, and figured there wasn’t any harm in telling her the truth. “Yeah, I know him.” he muttered “He’s my boyfriend.”

She didn’t look fazed. “Fair enough, Matthew. Fancy coming for a coffee with me? I really want one.”

At first, Matty thought he’d misheard her, or that she was joking. Nobody who’d ever dealt Matty drugs had ever asked him out for coffee, sans Scott. But that didn't really count.

He sighed. “I just told you. I have a boyfriend. And he’s a _man_.” He said the last sentence to her slowly, as if he were explaining something to a small child.

She snickered. “And _I’m_ married. And he’s a _man_ , too. There’s nothing romantic about it, I genuinely just want coffee. And there’s no point in coffee without company.” 

Matty considered slowly. He _could_ go back home, if that was the appropriate word, to more uninterrupted drugs and shitty sex. Or, he could take a slight break in the routine. 

“Alright, fine.” Matty answered, after a pensive pause. “But you’re paying.” 

* * *

 

They both ended up in the twee little café down the street, a cappuccino clasped in each of their hands, in absolute silence. Matty wasn’t quite sure what to do—even though H.K. seemed perfectly content, gnawing at her fingernails and taking the occasional minute sip of her coffee. 

“So,” she began, looking up from behind the rim of her drink. “What exactly do you do?”

“Well, I just quit my job. So I sit around wanking and getting high, mostly.” 

The words were delivered half-jokingly, but as soon as they left his mouth, Matty regretted them, feeling heat rush to his face. Why the fuck did he do this? Making other people uncomfortable simply because _he_ felt uncomfortable? He looked up to meet H.K.’s eyes, and she met them with an eyebrow raised. Then, she let out a snort of laughter. 

“Blunt.” She said. She lit a cigarette and Matty followed her queue, taking a long enough drag for the smoke to sting the roof of his mouth. He took another sip of his coffee, and let his thoughts wander in planet-Scott. He was still probably slouched across the sofa, high off his nut. Matty wondered if he was thinking about him.

He watched H.K.’s face for a long moment. She really _was_ pretty, in a _jolie-laide_ sort of way, with ridiculously full lips and the biggest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Her hair was fair and curly, nearly as curly as Matty’s, and formed a yellow halo around her pale face.

“I have to be honest with you,” Matty said finally, “sorry if it offends you, but you don’t really look like a drug dealer.” 

“Yeah,” she said, the pearly smoke from her cigarette climbing the air beside her. “Because I’m not. I’m only doing this on behalf of my husband because he’s…. occupied.”

“So… you’re not the real H.K.?”

“Technically speaking? No, I’m not.”

His lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Who _are_ you then?”

“His wife.”

Matty narrowed his eyes at her. “You can’t just define yourself to other people by your relationships.” 

“You sure? Because you introduced yourself to _me_ as ‘Scott’s boyfriend.’”

Matty frowned. “But that’s different.”

“How so?”  
  
Matty tried to think of a decent answer, but came out short. “Alright, fine. You still haven’t given me a straight answer, though. Can’t you just tell me your name?" 

“It’s not important.” The girl snapped. “Point is, I’m here and you’ve got your drugs.”

“But you asked me out for coffee.”

“It’s _coffee_. I didn’t offer to wed you and start a family with you in a cottage in fucking Dorset.”

“I have another honest question.” Matty announced, ignoring her snideness. “How old are you?” He downed the remainder of his cappuccino and slammed it down on the table, making the girl jump a little.

The girl scrunched up her nose. “Why is it important?”

“Dunno. You just look a bit young to be married to a drug dealer, I rate.”

She shrugged. “I’m mature for my age.” 

“Ha! So you _are_ young. Let me guess. Twenty?”

“It’s not important.”

“Fuck, even younger?” His eyes skimmed over her face, searching for any obvious indicator of her age. “Nineteen? Eight—”

“If you keep asking me how old I am,” She interrupted, her words clipped. “I’ll make sure you never get another gram of white from my husband ever again.”

That hushed Matty, and he went back to staring at the empty contents of the mug in front him.

“I should get going.” He told her evenly, beginning to think of Scott back at the flat.

“I’ll walk back with you.”

 _Fucking hell_ , Matty thought, _he really didn’t understand this girl_. She wanted to wander about with him, but the moment he asked her any questions about herself, she recoiled.

She hopped off her seat, insisting on paying for both their drinks, and followed his out the diner into the freezing street.

“So, Matty.” She said brightly, the chilly Manchester wind whipping her blonde hair. “How long have you and Scott been together?”

“Maybe a year now.” 

She nodded, and then kept quizzing him on little things like that. At one point, the two of them ducked into a neighboring alley, and Matty scooped an overgrown nail into one of the pockets in his coat and sniffed his blow then and there. It wasn’t the classiest way to consume drugs (although that was based on the assumption that there were _any_ classy ways to consume drug) but he didn’t exactly have many options, especially right there in the middle of a freezing fucking road. H.K. watched the hit come in silence, her face unreadable and shrouded in shadow, contouring her face into something sinister and ethereal.

* * *

They made the rest of their way back in silence. Once they reached the entrance to the block of flats where Scott lived, the girl stopped in her tracks, frowning at her shoes.

“I’m staying in a hotel about a mile further into the centre, by the way.” She said, fidgeting with a strand of her hair.

“…Okay.” Matty debated whether or not the comment was some kind of sexual invitation, but pushed the thought aside. “How come?" 

The girl shifted uncomfortably. “Oh… you know. Since my husband isn’t in town…” Her sentence teetered off, and she didn’t really seem to put much effort into finishing it off. When it became obvious she wasn't going to complete the thought, Matty decided to speak instead.

“…Alright. That’s cool, I guess. Anyway,” he waved at her hastily. “See ya later. Maybe. Thanks for the blow, ‘ppreciate it.”

“It’s ok. By the way… my name’s Gemma.” 

“Oh. Well thanks, Gemma." 

“Uh… you want me to walk you back to your hotel?” Matty offered, suddenly remembering his sense of etiquette.

“It’s quite alright.” She answered, not entirely meeting his eyes.

Before he could see anything else, she’d dissolved into the night, a mass of hair, baggy clothes and wild eyes. Matty watched her disappear, simultaneously intrigued and bemused. He sighed, and returned to Scott’s flat, a part of him afraid of what he might find.

* * *

Gemma wrapped her coat tighter around herself, running a slender hand through her hair and staring at her boots as she strolled. Her hotel was sleazy and grimy, with dirt caking the bricks and mold blooming in every corner, but they didn’t ask many questions, which was what she was looking for.

She came in through the lobby, appreciating the comforting warmth that had been lacking outside. She decided to take a quick trip to the bar before bed; alcohol always made her sleep easier; it seemed to chase away the nightmares that had frequented her the past few months, or at least blurred them into an indistinguishable smudge.

The bar was much like the rest of the hotel. It was never busy, despite the cheap prices of the drinks and the fact that it rarely asked for ID from underage customers (she knew this from personal experience—she . Gemma did have to admit though, there was something silently repulsive about the place, even if she couldn’t quite place it. 

She ordered a gin and tonic and sipped at it quietly, eyeing the bars other patrons. The only other customers appeared to be a couple of sleazy looking men coated in tattoos, and a younger looking man who was speaking in hushed tones to the barman. Once or twice he’d throw Gemma a nervous glance—probably because she was staring so much—but she couldn’t _help_ it—the guy was just so incongruous to his surroundings. And that was coming from _her_.

He looked young, maybe just a year or two older than her. If you didn’t look at his face, though, he’d look much older—he was stupidly tall, so much so that he looked to be struggling to cram himself into his seat. His lips tightened, and Gemma took that as an invitation for discussion.

“I’m not interested,” he said gruffly, when she drew closer. “I just want to go to bed, alright?" 

It took a second for Gemma to realize what his implication was, but when she did, she just laughed. She felt she should have been offended, but the guy seemed to stiff and antsy that she couldn’t even take it seriously.

“I’m not a prostitute.” She said between giggles.

The man went red. His skin was unnaturally fair, making it even more obvious than it would have been already. His skin was _vampire_ pale. North of England pale.

“I am curious, though.” She said, swirling her drink with her finger. “You look far too respectable to be somewhere like _here_. Visiting family?" 

“No.” 

“Friends?”

“No.” 

She quirked her eyebrow. “Shady business? C’mon, you can be honest.”

“No!”

“Then what _are_ you doing in here?” Gemma shifted her seat closer to his, fully grinning this time. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “This isn’t the kind of place you come unless you’ve got something to hide.”

He side-eyed her and shook his head. “Nothing to hide.” He said flatly. “Just looking for someone.”

“Who?”

The man huffed. “Somebody who doesn’t want to be found, evidently.”

“I doubt it. If he really didn’t want to be found, he’d probably have gone to like, East Berlin. I mean, if he were that committed." 

“He’s not in East Berlin."

“He’s definitely in Manchester?”

The man scratched his head. “Well… I hope so. Because I don’t really know where else I’d look.” He shook his head and groaned. “Fucking hell, maybe he _is_ in East Berlin.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, it’s not exactly easy to get in. Besides, you can’t give up hope yet. I might know him.”

“I doubt it.”

“You’d be surprised,” Gemma said with a smirk, “I know a _lot_ of people.” 

The man eyed her for a long second, before sighing and fishing a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Gemma took the photo into her hand and studied it, her jaw nearly dropping when she realized where she recognized its subject from.

It was a photo of a teenage boy and somebody Gemma assumed was his mother. The boy was pale and gaunt, with deep set eyes and thick, straight eyebrows. The mother looked healthier, although there was something desolate behind her watery-blue eyes too. 

“I’m looking for the boy.” The man said. His eyes looked pleading. It was only now that Gemma noticed how desperate he looked—his eyes were sunken and there were purple bruises under his bloodshot eyes. “This photo was taken a few years ago, so he’ll obviously be older now—”

“Fuck.” Gemma muttered, looking sharply up at the stranger. “I _do_ know him. I saw him just a few minutes ago.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dw, you'll get all georgie's backstory in the next chapter.


End file.
